THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  ELSINORE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •    ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 
TORONTO 


/      \ 


THE    MUTINY  OF 
THE  ELSINORE 


BY 

JACK  LONDON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD,"  "THE  SEA  WOLF,'* 
"THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON,"  ETC. 


WITH    FRONTISPIECE 


JJeto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1914 


COPTKIQHT,  1913  AND  1914 

BY  JACK  LONDON  AND  BY  HEARST'S  MAGAZINE 

COPYRIGHT,  1914 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  Electrotyped.    Published  September,  1914 
COPYBIQHT  ra  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  4  Ires  Co. 
New  York 


P535 
> 

H- 


THE  MUTINY  OF  THE  ELSINORE 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE 
ELSINORE 

CHAPTER   I 

FROM  the  first  the  voyage  was  going  wrong.  Routed  out 
of  my  hotel  on  a  bitter  March  morning,  I  had  crossed  Balti 
more  and  reached  the  pier-end  precisely  on  time.  At  nine 
o'clock  the  tug  was  to  have  taken  me  down  the  bay  and 
put  me  on  board  the  Elsinore,  and  with  growing  irritation 
I  sat  frozen  inside  my  taxicab  and  waited.  On  the  seat, 
outside,  the  driver  and  Wada  sat  hunched  in  a  temperature 
perhaps  half  a  degree  colder  than  mine.  And  there  was 
no  tug. 

Possum,  the  fox  terrier  puppy  Galbraith  had  so  incon 
siderately  foisted  upon  me,  whimpered  and  shivered  on 
my  lap  inside  my  greatcoat  and  under  the  fur  robe.  But 
he  would  not  settle  down.  Continually  he  whimpered  and 
clawed  and  struggled  to  get  out.  And,  once  out  and  bitten 
by  the  cold,  with  equal  insistence  he  whimpered  and 
clawed  to  get  back. 

His  unceasing  plaint  and  movement  were  anything  but 
sedative  to  my  jangled  nerves.  In  the  first  place  I  was 
uninterested  in  the  brute.  He  meant  nothing  to  me.  I 
did  not  know  him.  Time  and  again,  as  I  drearily  waited, 
I  was  on  the  verge  of  giving  him  to  the  driver.  Once, 
when  two  little  girls — evidently  the  wharfinger's  daughters 
— went  by,  my  hand  reached  out  to  the  door  to  open  it  so 
that  I  might  c.  11  to  them  and  present  them  with  the  puling 
little  wretch. 

A  farewell  surprise  package  from  Galbraith,  he  had  ar- 

1 


2  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

rived  at  the  hotel  the  night  before,  by  express  from  New 
York.  It  was  Galbraith's  way.  Yet  he  might  so  easily 
have  been  decently  like  other  folk  and  sent  fruit  ...  or 
flowers,  even.  But  no;  his  affectionate  inspiration  had  to 
take  the  form  of  a  yelping,  yapping  two  months'  old 
puppy.  And  with  the  advent  of  the  terrier  the  trouble 
had  begun.  The  hotel  clerk  judged  me  a  criminal  before 
the  act.  I  had  not  even  had  time  to  meditate.  And  then 
Wada,  on  his  own  initiative  and  out  of  his  own  stupidity, 
had  attempted  to  smuggle  the  puppy  into  his  room  and 
been  caught  by  a  house  detective.  Promptly  Wada  had 
forgotten  all  his  English  and  lapsed  into  hysterical  Jap 
anese,  and  the  house  detective  remembered  only  his  Irish; 
while  the  hotel  clerk  had  given  me  to  understand  in  no 
uncertain  terms  that  it  was  only  what  he  had  expected 
of  me. 

Damn  the  dog,  anyway!  And  damn  Galbraith,  too! 
And,  as  I  froze  on  in  the  cab  on  that  bleak  pier-end,  I 
damned  myself  as  well,  and  the  mad  freak  that  had  started 
me  voyaging  on  a  sailing  ship  around  the  Horn. 

By  ten  o'clock  a  nondescript  youth  arrived  on  foot,  car 
rying  a  suitcase,  which  was  turned  over  to  me  a  few 
minutes  later  by  the  wharfinger.  It  belonged  to  the  pilot, 
he  said,  and  he  gave  instructions  to  the  chauffeur  how  to 
find  some  other  pier  from  which,  at  some  indeterminate 
time,  I  should  be  taken  aboard  the  Elsinore  by  some  other 
tug.  This  served  to  increase  my  irritation.  Why  should 
I  not  have  been  informed  as  well  as  the  pilot? 

An  hour  later,  still  in  my  cab  and  stationed  at  the  shore 
end  of  the  new  pier,  the  pilot  arrived.  Anything  more 
unlike  a  pilot  I  could  not  have  imagined.  Here  was  no 
blue-jacketed,  weather-beaten  son  of  the  sea,  but  a  soft- 
spoken  gentleman,  for  all  the  world  the  type  of  successful 
business  man  one  meets  in  all  the  clubs.  He  introduced 
himself  immediately,  and  I  invited  him  to  share  my  freez- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  3 

ing  cab  with  Possum  and  the  baggage.  That  some  change 
had  been  made  in  the  arrangements  by  Captain  West  was 
all  he  knew,  though  he  fancied  the  tug  would  come  along 
any  time. 

And  it  did,  at  one  in  the  afternoon,  after  I  had  been 
compelled  to  wait  and  freeze  for  four  mortal  hours.  Dur 
ing  this  time  I  fully  made  up  my  mind  that  I  was  not 
going  to  like  this  Captain  West.  Although  I  had  never 
met  him,  his  treatment  of  me  from  the  outset  had  been,  to 
say  the  least,  cavalier.  When  the  Elsinore  lay  in  Erie 
Basin,  just  arrived  from  California  with  a  cargo  of  barley, 
I  had  crossed  over  from  New  York  to  inspect  what  was  to 
be  my  home  for  many  months.  I  had  been  delighted  with 
the  ship  and  the  cabin  accommodations.  Even  the  state 
room  selected  for  me  was  satisfactory  and  far  more  spacious 
than  I  had  expected.  But  when  I  peeped  into  the  cap 
tain  's  room  I  was  amazed  at  its  comfort.  When  I  say  that 
it  opened  directly  into  a  bathroom,  and  that,  among  other 
things,  it  was  furnished  with  a  big  brass  bed  such  as  one 
would  never  expect  to  find  at  sea,  I  have  said  enough. 

Naturally,  I  had  resolved  that  the  bathroom  and  the  big 
brass  bed  should  be  mine.  When  I  asked  the  agents  to  ar 
range  with  the  captain,  they  seemed  non-committal  and 
uncomfortable.  "I  don't  know  in  the  least  what  it  is 
worth, ' '  I  said.  ' '  And  I  don 't  care.  Whether  it  costs  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  or  five  hundred,  I  must  have 
those  quarters." 

Harrison  and  Gray,  the  agents,  debated  silently  with 
each  other  and  scarcely  thought  Captain  West  would  see 
his  way  to  the  arrangement.  "Then  he  is  the  first  sea 
captain  I  ever  heard  of  that  wouldn't, "  I  asserted  confi 
dently.  "Why,  the  captains  of  all  the  Atlantic  liners  regu 
larly  sell  their  quarters. ' ' 

"But  Captain  West  is  not  the  captain  of  an  Atlantic 
liner,"  Mr.  Harrison  observed  gently. 


4  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

' ' Remember,  I  am  to  be  on  that  ship  many  a  month,"  I 
retorted.  "Why,  heavens,  bid  him  up  to  a  thousand  if 
necessary. ' ' 

"We'll  try,"  said  Mr.  Gray,  "but  we  warn  you  not  to 
place  too  much  dependence  on  our  efforts.  Captain  West 
is  in  Searsport  at  the  present  time,  and  we  will  write  him 
to-day. " 

To  my  astonishment,  Mr.  Gray  called  me  up  several  days 
later  to  inform  me  that  Captain  West  had  declined  my 
offer.  "Did  you  offer  him  up  to  a  thousand?"  I  de 
manded.  ' '  What  did  he  say  ? " 

"He  regretted  that  he  was  unable  to  concede  what  you 
asked,"  Mr.  Gray  replied. 

A  day  later  I  received  a  letter  from  Captain  West.  The 
writing  and  the  wording  were  old-fashioned  and  formal. 
He  regretted  not  having  yet  met  me,  and  assured  me  that 
he  would  see  personally  that  my  quarters  were  made  com 
fortable.  For  that  matter,  he  had  already  dispatched  or 
ders  to  Mr.  Pike,  the  first  mate  of  the  Elsinore,  to  knock 
out  the  partition  between  my  stateroom  and  the  spare  state 
room  adjoining.  Further — and  here  is  where  my  dislike 
for  Captain  West  began — he  informed  me  that  if,  when 
once  well  at  sea,  I  should  find  myself  dissatisfied,  he  would 
gladly,  in  that  case,  exchange  quarters  with  me. 

Of  course,  after  such  a  rebuff,  I  knew  that  no  circum 
stance  could  ever  persuade  me  to  occupy  Captain  West's 
brass  bed.  And  it  was  this  Captain  Nathaniel  West,  whom 
I  had  not  yet  met,  who  had  now  kept  me  freezing  on  pier- 
ends  through  four  miserable  hours.  The  less  I  saw  of  him 
on  the  voyage  the  better,  was  my  decision ;  and  it  was  with 
a  little  tickle  of  pleasure  that  I  thought  of  the  many  boxes 
of  books  1  had  dispatched  on  board  from  New  York.  Thank 
the  Lord,  I  did  not  depend  on  sea  captains  for  entertain 
ment. 

I  turned  Possum  over  to  Wada,  who  was  settling  with 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE  5 

the  cabman,  and  while  the  tug's  sailors  were  carrying  my 
luggage  on  board  I  was  led  by  the  pilot  to  an  introduction 
with  Captain  West.  At  the  first  glimpse  I  knew  that  he 
was  no  more  a  sea  captain  than  the  pilot  was  a  pilot.  I 
had  seen  the  best  of  the  breed,  the  captains  of  the  liners, 
and  he  no  more  resembled  them  than  did  he  resemble  the 
bluff- faced,  gruff- voiced  skippers  I  had  read  about  in  books. 
By  his  side  stood  a  woman  of  whom  little  was  to  be  seen 
and  who  made  a  warm  and  gorgeous  blob  of  color  in  the 
huge  muff  and  boa  of  red  fox  in  which  she  was  well-nigh 
buried. 

1  'My  God! — his  wife!"  I  darted  in  a  whisper  at  the 
pilot.  "Going  along  with  him.  .  .  ." 

I  had  expressly  stipulated  with  Mr.  Harrison,  when  en 
gaging  passage,  that  the  one  thing  I  could  not  possibly 
consider  was  the  skipper  of  the  Elsinore  taking  his  wife 
on  the  voyage.  And  Mr.  Harrison  had  smiled  and  assured 
me  that  Captain  West  would  sail  unaccompanied  by  a  wife. 

"It's  his  daughter,"  the  pilot  replied  under  his  breath. 
"Come  to  see  him  off,  I  fancy.  His  wife  died  over  a  year 
ago.  They  say  that  is  what  sent  him  back  to  sea.  He'd 
retired,  you  know. ' ' 

Captain  West  advanced  to  meet  me,  and  before  our  out 
stretched  hands  touched,  before  his  face  broke  from  re 
pose  to  greeting  and  the  lips  moved  to  speech,  I  got  the 
first  astonishing  impact  of  his  personality.  Long,  lean,  in 
his  face  a  touch  of  race  I  as  yet  could  only  sense,  he  was 
as  cool  as  the  day  was  cold,  as  poised  as  a  king  or  em 
peror,  as  remote  as  the  farthest  fixed  star,  as  neutral  as  a 
proposition  of  Euclid.  And  then,  just  ere  our  hands  met, 
a  twinkle  of — oh — such  distant  and  controlled  geniality 
quickened  the  many  tiny  wrinkles  in  the  corner  of  the 
eyes;  the  clear  blue  of  the  eyes  was  suffused  by  an  almost 
colorful  warmth;  the  face,  too,  seemed  similarly  to  suf 
fuse;  the  thin  lips,  harsh-set  the  instant  before,  were  as 


6  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

gracious  as  Bernhardt  's  when  she  moulds  sound  into  speech. 

So  curiously  was  I  affected  by  this  first  glimpse  of  Cap 
tain  West  that  I  was  aware  of  expecting  to  fall  from  his 
lips  I  knew  not  what  words  of  untold  beneficence  and  wis 
dom.  Yet  he  uttered  most  commonplace  regrets  at  the 
delay  in  a  voice  provocative  of  fresh  surprise  to  me.  It 
was  low  and  gentle,  almost  too  low,  yet  clear  as  a  bell  and 
touched  with  a  faint  reminiscent  twang  of  old  New  Eng 
land. 

"And  this  is  the  young  woman  who  is  guilty  of  the  de 
lay,  ' '  he  concluded  my  introduction  to  his  daughter.  '  *  Mar 
garet,  this  is  Mr.  Pathurst." 

Her  gloved  hand  promptly  emerged  from  the  foxskins 
to  meet  mine,  and  I  found  myself  looking  into  a  pair  of 
gray  eyes  bent  steadily  and  gravely  upon  me.  It  was  dis 
comfiting,  that  cool,  penetrating,  searching  gaze.  It  was 
not  that  it  was  challenging,  but  that  it  was  so  insolently 
business-like.  It  was  much  in  the  very  way  one  would  look 
at  a  new  coachman  he  was  about  to  engage.  I  did  not 
know  then  that  she  was  to  go  on  the  voyage,  and  that  her 
curiosity  about  the  man  who  was  to  be  a  fellow  passenger 
for  half  a  year  was  therefore  only  natural.  Immediately 
she  realized  what  she  was  doing,  and  her  lips  and  eyes 
smiled  as  she  spoke. 

As  we  moved  on  to  enter  the  tug's  cabin,  I  heard  Pos 
sum's  shivering  whimper  rising  to  a  screech  and  went  for 
ward  to  tell  Wada  to  take  the  creature  in  out  of  the  cold. 
I  found  him  hovering  about  my  luggage,  wedging  my 
dressing  case  securely  upright  by  means  of  my  little  auto 
matic  rifle.  I  was  startled  by  the  mountain  of  luggage 
around  which  mine  was  no  more  than  a  fringe.  Ship's 
stores,  was  my  first  thought,  until  I  noted  the  number  of 
trunks,  boxes,  suitcases,  and  parcels  and  bundles  of  all 
sorts.  The  initials  on  what  looked  suspiciously  like  a 
woman's  hat  trunk  caught  my  eye — "M.  W."  Yet  Cap- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  7 

tain  West's  first  name  was  Nathaniel.  On  closer  investi 
gation  I  did  find  several  "N.  W.'s,"  but  everywhere  I 
could  see  "M.  W.'s."  Then  I  remembered  that  he  had 
called  her  Margaret. 

I  was  too  angry  to  return  to  the  cabin,  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  cold  deck,  biting  my  lips  with  vexation.  I 
had  so  expressly  stipulated  with  the  agents  that  no  cap 
tain's  wife  was  to  come  along.  The  last  thing  under  the 
sun  I  desired  in  the  pent  quarters  of  a  ship  was  a  woman. 
But  I  had  never  thought  about  a  captain's  daughter.  For 
two  cents  I  was  ready  to  throw  the  voyage  over  and  return 
on  the  tug  to  Baltimore. 

By  the  time  the  wind  caused  by  our  speed  had  chilled 
me  bitterly  I  noticed  Miss  West  coming  along  the  narrow 
deck,  and  could  not  avoid  being  struck  by  the  spring  and 
vitality  of  her  walk.  Her  face,  despite  its  firm  moulding, 
had  a  suggestion  of  fragility  that  was  belied  by  the  robust 
ness  of  her  body.  At  least,  one  would  argue  that  her 
body  must  be  robust  from  her  fashion  of  movement  of  it, 
though  little  could  one  divine  the  lines  of  it  under  the 
shapelessness  of  the  furs. 

I  turned  away  on  my  heel  and  fell  moodily  to  contem 
plating  the  mountain  of  luggage.  A  huge  packing  case 
attracted  my  attention,  and  I  was  staring  at  it  when  she 
spoke  at  my  shoulder. 

"That's  what  really  caused  the  delay,"  she  said. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  incuriously. 

"Why,  the  Elsinore's  piano,  all  renovated.  When  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  come,  I  telegraphed  Mr.  Pike — he's 
the  mate,  you  know.  He  did  his  best.  It  was  the  fault  of 
the  piano  house.  And  while  we  waited  to-day  I  gave  them 
a  piece  of  my  mind  they  '11  not  forget  in  a  hurry. ' ' 

She  laughed  at  the  recollection,  and  commenced  to  peep 
and  peer  into  the  luggage  as  if  in  search  of  some  par- 


8  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

ticular  piece.  Having  satisfied  herself,  she  was  starting 
back,  when  she  paused  and  said: 

" Won't  you  come  into  the  cabin  where  it's  warm?  We 
won't  be  there  for  half  an  hour." 

"When  did  you  decide  to  make  this  voyage?"  I  de 
manded  abruptly. 

So  quick  was  the  look  she  gave  me  that  I  knew  she  had 
in  that  moment  caught  all  my  disgruntlement  and  disgust. 

"Two  days  ago,"  she  answered.     "Why?" 

Her  readiness  for  give  and  take  took  me  aback,  and  be 
fore  I  could  speak  she  went  on: 

' '  Now  you  're  not  to  be  at  all  silly  about  my  coming,  Mr. 
Pathurst.  I  probably  know  more  about  long- voyaging  than 
you  do,  and  we're  all  going  to  be  comfortable  and  happy. 
You  can't  bother  me,  and  I  promise  you  I  won't  bother 
you.  I've  sailed  with  passengers  before,  and  I've  learned 
to  put  up  with  more  than  they  ever  proved  they  were  able 
to  put  up  with.  So  there.  Let  us  start  right,  and  it  won 't 
be  any  trouble  to  keep  on  going  right.  I  know  what  is  the 
matter  with  you.  You  think  you'll  be  called  upon  to  en 
tertain  me.  Please  know  that  I  do  not  need  entertain 
ment.  I  never  saw  the  longest  voyage  that  was  too  long, 
and  I  always  arrive  at  the  end  with  too  many  things  not 
done  for  the  passage  ever  to  have  been  tedious,  and  .  .  . 
I  don't  play  Chopsticks." 


CHAPTER  H 

THE  Elsinore,  fresh-loaded  with  coal,  lay  very  deep  in 
the  water  when  we  came  alongside.  I  knew  too  little 
about  ships  to  be  capable  of  admiring  her  lines,  and,  be 
sides,  I  was  in  no  mood  for  admiration.  I  was  still  de 
bating  with  myself  whether  or  not  to  chuck  the  whole 
thing  and  return  on  the  tug.  From  all  of  which  it  must 
not  be  taken  that  I  am  a  vacillating  type  of  man.  On  the 
contrary. 

The  trouble  was  that  at  no  time,  from  the  first  thought 
of  it,  had  I  been  keen  for  the  voyage.  Practically  the  rea 
son  I  was  taking  it  was  because  there  was  nothing  else  I 
was  keen  on.  For  some  time,  now,  life  had  lost  its  savor. 
I  was  not  jaded,  nor  was  I  exactly  bored.  But  the  zest 
had  gone  out  of  things.  I  had  lost  taste  for  my  fellow 
men  and  all  their  foolish,  little,  serious  endeavors.  For  a 
far  longer  period  I  had  been  dissatisfied  with  women.  I 
had  endured  them,  but  I  had  been  too  analytic  of  the  faults 
of  their  primitiveness,  of  their  almost  ferocious  devotion 
to  the  destiny  of  sex,  to  be  enchanted  with  them.  And  I 
had  come  to  be  oppressed  by  what  seemed  to  me  the  futil 
ity  of  art — a  pompous  legerdemain,  a  consummate  charla 
tanry  that  deceived  not  only  its  devotees  but  its  prac 
titioners. 

In  short,  I  was  embarking  on  the  Elsinore  because  it  was 
easier  to  than  not ;  yet  everything  else  was  as  equally  and 
perilously  easy.  That  was  the  curse  of  the  condition  into 
which  I  had  fallen.  That  was  why,  as  I  stepped  upon  the 
deck  of  the  Elsinore,  I  was  half  of  a  mind  to  tell  them  to 

9 


10  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

keep  my  luggage  where  it  was,  and  bid  Captain  West  and 
his  daughter  good  day. 

I  almost  think  what  decided  me  was  the  welcoming,  hos 
pitable  smile  Miss  West  gave  me  as  she  started  directly 
across  the  deck  for  the  cabin,  and  the  knowledge  that  it 
must  be  quite  warm  in  the  cabin. 

Mr.  Pike,  the  mate,  I  had  already  met,  when  I  visited  the 
ship  in  Erie  Basin.  He  smiled  a  stiff,  crack-faced  smile 
that  I  knew  must  be  painful,  but  did  not  offer  to  shake 
hands,  turning  immediately  to  call  orders  to  half  a  dozen 
frozen-looking  youths  and  aged  men  who  shambled  up 
from  somewhere  in  the  waist  of  the  ship.  Mr.  Pike  had 
been  drinking.  That  was  -  patent.  His  face  was  puffed 
and  discolored,  and  his  large  gray  eyes  were  bitter  and 
bloodshot. 

I  lingered,  with  a  sinking  heart  watching  my  belongings 
come  aboard  and  chiding  my  weakness  of  will  which  pre 
vented  me  from  uttering  the  few  words  that  would  put  a 
stop  to  it.  As  for  the  half-dozen  men  who  were  now  carry 
ing  the  luggage  aft  into  the  cabin,  they  were  unlike  any 
concept  I  had  ever  entertained  of  sailors.  Certainly,  on 
the  liners,  I  had  observed  nothing  that  resembled  them. 

One,  a  most  vivid-faced  youth  of  eighteen,  smiled  at 
me  from  a  pair  of  remarkable  Italian  eyes.  But  he  was  a 
dwarf.  So  short  was  he  that  he  was  all  sea-boots  and 
sou'wester.  And  yet  he  was  not  entirely  Italian.  So 
certain  was  I  that  I  asked  the  mate,  who  answered  mor 
osely  : 

"Him?  Shorty?  He's  a  dago  half-breed.  The  other 
half's  Jap  or  Malay." 

One  old  man,  who  I  learned  was  a  bosun,  was  so  de 
crepit  that  I  thought  he  had  been  recently  injured.  His 
face  was  stolid  and  oxlike,  and  as  he  shuffled  and  dragged 
his  brogans  over  the  deck  he  paused  every  several  steps 
to  place  both  hands  on  his  abdomen  and  execute  a  queer, 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  11 

pressing,  lifting  movement.  Months  were  to  pass,  in  which 
I  saw  him  do  this  thousands  of  times,  ere  I  learned  that 
there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  him  and  that  his  action 
was  purely  a  habit.  His  face  reminded  me  of  the  Man 
with  the  Hoe,  save  that  it  was  unthinkably  and  abysmally 
stupider.  And  his  name,  as  I  was  to  learn,  of  all  names 
was  Sundry  Buyers.  And  he  was  bosun  of  the  fine  Amer 
ican  sailing  ship  Elsinore — rated  one  of  the  finest  sailing 
ships  afloat! 

Of  this  group  of  aged  men  and  boys  that  moved  the 
luggage  along,  I  saw  only  one,  called  Henry,  a  youth  of 
sixteen,  who  approximated  in  the  slightest  what  I  had 
conceived  all  sailors  to  be  alike.  He  had  come  off  a  train 
ing  ship,  the  mate  told  me,  and  this  was  his  first  voyage 
to  sea.  His  face  was  keen-cut,  alert,  as  were  his  bodily 
movements,  and  he  wore  sailor-appearing  clothes  with 
sailor-seeming  grace.  In  fact,  as  I  was  to  learn,  he  was 
to  be  the  only  sailor-seeming  creature  fore  and  aft. 

The  main  crew  had  not  yet  come  aboard,  but  was  ex- 
pected  at  any  moment,  the  mate  vouchsafed  with  a  snarl 
of  ominous  expectancy.  Those  already  on  board  were  the 
miscellaneous  ones  who  had  shipped  themselves  in  New 
York  without  the  mediation  of  boarding-house  masters. 
And  what  the  crew  itself  would  be  like  God  alone  could 
tell — so  said  the  mate.  Shorty,  the  Japanese  (or  Malay) 
and  Italian  half-caste,  the  mate  told  me,  was  an  able  sea 
man,  though  he  had  come  out  of  steam  and  this  was  his 
first  sailing  voyage. 

''Ordinary  seamen!"  Mr.  Pike  snorted,  in  reply  to  a 
question.  "We  don't  carry  'em.  Landsmen! — forget  it! 
Every  clodhopper  an'  cow- walloper  these  days  is  an  able 
seaman.  That's  the  way  they  rank  and  are  paid.  The 
merchant  service  is  all  shot  to  hell.  There  ain't  no  more 
sailors.  They  all  died  years  ago  before  you  were  born 


12          THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

I  could  smell  the  raw  whiskey  on  the  mate's  breath. 
Yet  he  did  not  stagger  nor  show  any  signs  of  intoxication. 
Not  until  afterward  was  I  to  know  that  his  willingness  to 
talk  was  most  unwonted  and  was  where  the  liquor  gave 
him  away. 

"It'd  V  been  a  grace  had  I  died  years  ago,"  he  said, 
" rather  than  to  V  lived  to. see  sailors  an'  ships  pass  away 
from  the  sea. ' ' 

"But  I  understand  the  Elsinore  is  considered  one  of  the 
finest,"  I  urged. 

"So  she  is  ...  to-day.  But  what  is  she? — a  damned 
cargo-carrier.  She  ain't  built  for  sailin',  an',  if  she  was, 
there  ain  't  no  sailors  left  to  sail  her.  Lord !  Lord !  The 
old  clippers!  When  I  think  of  'em! — The  Gamecock, 
Shootin'  Star,  Flyin'  Fish,  Witch  o'  the  Wave,  Staghound, 
Harvey  Birch,  Canvasback,  Fleetwing,  Sea  Serpent,  Nor 
thern  Light!  An'  when  I  think  of  the  fleets  of  the  tea 
clippers  that  used  to  load  at  Hong  Kong  an'  race  the 
Eastern  Passages.  A  fine  sight!  A  fine  sight!" 

I  was  interested.  Here  was  a  man,  a  live  man.  I  was 
in  no  hurry  to  go  into  the  cabin,  where  I  knew  Wada  was 
unpacking  my  things,  so  I  paced  up  and  down  the  deck 
with  the  huge  Mr.  Pike.  Huge  he  was  in  all  conscience, 
broad-shouldered,  heavy-boned,  and,  despite  the  profound 
stoop  of  his  shoulders,  fully  six  feet  in  height. 

"You  are  a  splendid  figure  of  a  man,"  I  complimented. 

"I  was,  I  was,"  he  muttered  sadly,  and  I  caught  the 
whiff  of  whiskey  strong  on  the  air. 

I  stole  a  look  at  his  gnarled  hands.  Any  finger  would 
have  made  two  of  mine.  His  wrist  would  have  made  two 
of  my  wrist. 

"How  much  do  you  weigh?"  I  asked. 

"Two  hundred  an'  ten.  But  in  my  day,  at  my  best,  I 
tipped  the  scales  close  to  two-forty." 


THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE  13 

"And  the  Elsinore  can't  sail,"  I  said,  returning  to  the 
subject  which  had  roused  him. 

"I'll  take  you  even,  anything  from  a  pound  of  tobacco 
to  a  month's  wages,  she  won't  make  it  around  in  a  hun 
dred  an '  fifty  days, ' '  he  answered.  { '  Yet  I  've  come  around 
in  the  old  Flyin'  Cloud  in  eighty-nine  days — eighty-nine 
days,  sir,  from  Sandy  Hook  to  Frisco.  Sixty  men  for'ard 
that  was  men,  an'  eight  boys,  an'  drive!  drive!  drive! 
Three  hundred  an'  seventy-four  miles  for  a  day's  run  un 
der  t 'gallants,  an'  in  the  squalls  eighteen  knots  o'  line  not 
enough  to  time  her.  Eighty-nine  days — never  beat,  an' 
tied  once  by  the  old  Andrew  Jackson  nine  years  after 
ward.  Them  was  the  days!" 

"When  did  the  Andrew  Jackson  tie  her?"  I  asked,  be 
cause  of  the  growing  suspicion  that  he  was  having  me. 

"In  1860,"  was  his  prompt  reply. 

"And  you  sailed  in  the  Flying  Cloud  nine  years  before 
that,  and  this  is  1913 — why,  that  was  sixty-two  years  ago," 
I  charged. 

' '  And  I  was  seven  years  old, ' '  he  chuckled.  ' '  My  mother 
was  stewardess  on  the  Flying  Cloud.  I  was  born  at  sea. 
I  was  boy  when  I  was  twelve,  on  the  Herald  o'  the  Morn, 
when  she  made  around  in  ninety-nine  days — half  the  crew 
in  irons  most  o'  the  time,  five  men  lost  from  aloft  off  the 
Horn,  the  points  of  our  sheath-knives  broken  square  off, 
knuckle-dusters  an'  belayin'  pins  flyin',  three  men  shot 
by  the  officers  in  one  day,  the  second  mate  killed  deado  an' 
no  one  to  know  who  done  it,  an'  drive!  drive!  drive! — 
ninety-nine  days  from  land  to  land,  a  run  of  seventeen 
thousand  miles,  an '  east  to  west  around  Cape  Stiff ! ' ' 

"But  that  would  make  you  sixty-nine  years  old,"  I  in 
sisted. 

"Which  I  am,"  he  retorted  proudly,  "an'  a  better  man 
at  that  than  the  scrubby  younglings  of  these  days.  A  gen 
eration  of  'em  would  die  under  the  things  I've  been 


14          THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

through.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Sunny  South? — she 
that  was  sold  in  Havana  to  run  slaves  an'  changed  her 
name  to  Emanuela?" 

1 '  And  you  've  sailed  the  Middle  Passage ! ' '  I  cried,  recol 
lecting  the  old  phrase. 

"I  was  on  the  Emanuela  that  day  in  Mozambique  Chan 
nel  when  the  Brisk  caught  us  with  nine  hundred  slaves 
between-decks.  Only  she  wouldn't  'a'  caught  us  except 
for  her  having  steam." 

I  continued  to  stroll  up  and  down  beside  this  massive 
relic  of  the  past,  and  to  listen  to  his  hints  and  muttered 
reminiscences  of  old  man-killing  and  man-driving  days. 
He  was  too  real  to  be  true,  and  yet,  as  I  studied  his  shoul 
der-stoop  and  the  age-drag  of  his  huge  feet,  I  was  con 
vinced  that  his  years  were  as  he  asserted.  He  spoke  of  a 
Captain  Somers. 

1 '  He  was  a  great  captain, ' '  he  was  saying.  * '  An '  in  the 
two  years  I  sailed  mate  with  him  there  was  never  a  port 
I  didn't  jump  the  ship  goin'  in  an'  stay  .in  hiding  until 
I  sneaked  aboard  when  she  sailed  again. ' ' 

"But  why?" 

"The  men,  on  account  of  the  men  swearing  blood  an* 
vengeance  and  warrants  against  me  because  of  my  ways 
of  teachin'  them  to  be  sailors.  Why,  the  times  I  was 
caught,  and  the  fines  the  skipper  paid  for  me — and  yet  it 
was  my  work  that  made  the  ship  make  money. ' ' 

He  held  up  his  huge  paws,  and  as  I  stared  at  the  bat 
tered,  malformed  knuckles  I  understood  the  nature  of  his 
work. 

"But  all  that's  stopped  now,"  he  lamented.  "A  sailor's 
a  gentleman  these  days.  You  can't  raise  your  voice  or 
your  hand  to  them." 

At  this  moment  he  was  addressed  from  the  poop  rail 
above  by  the  second  mate,  a  medium-sized,  heavily  built, 
clean-shaven  blond  man. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOBE  15 

''The  tug's  in  sight  with  the  crew,  sir,"  he  announced. 

The  mate  grunted  an  acknowledgment,  then  added, 
' '  Come  on  down,  Mr.  Mellaire,  and  meet  our  passenger. ' ' 

I  could  not  help  noting  the  air  and  carriage  with  which 
Mr.  Mellaire  came  down  the  poop  ladder  and  took  his  part 
in  the  introduction.  He  was  courteous  in  an  old-world 
way,  soft-spoken,  suave,  and  unmistakably  from  south  of 
Mason  and  Dixon. 

"A  Southerner,"  I  said. 

"Georgia,  sir,"  he  bowed  and  smiled,  as  only  a  South 
erner  can  bow  and  smile. 

His  features  and  expression  were  genial  and  gentle,  and 
yet  his  mouth  was  the  cruelest  gash  I  had  ever  seen  in  a 
man's  face.  It  was  a  gash.  There  is  no  other  way  of 
describing  that  harsh,  thin-lipped,  shapeless  mouth  that  ut 
tered  gracious  things  so  graciously.  Involuntarily  I 
glanced  at  his  hands.  Like  the  mate's,  they  were  thick- 
boned,  broken-knuckled,  and  malformed.  Back  into  his 
blue  eyes  I  looked.  On  the  surface  of  them  was  a  film  of 
light,  a  gloss  of  gentle  kindness  and  cordiality,  but  behind 
that  gloss  I  knew  resided  neither  sincerity  nor  mercy.  Be 
hind  that  gloss  was  something  cold  and  terrible  that  lurked 
and  waited  and  watched — something  catlike,  something  in 
imical  and  deadly.  Behind  that  gloss  of  soft  light  and  of 
social  sparkle  was  the  live,  fearful  thing  that  had  shaped 
that  mouth  into  the  gash  it  was.  What  I  sensed  behind 
in  those  eyes  chilled  me  with  its  repulsiveness  and 
strangeness. 

As  I  faced  Mr.  Mellaire,  and  talked  with  him,  and  smiled, 
and  exchanged  amenities,  I  was  aware  of  the  feeling  that 
comes  to  one  in  the  forest  or  jungle  when  he  knows  unseen 
wild  eyes  of  hunting  animals  are  spying  upon  him.  Frank 
ly,  I  was  afraid  of  the  thing  ambushed  behind  there  in  the 
skull  of  Mr.  Mellaire.  One  so  as  a  matter  of  course  identi 
fies  form  and  feature  with  the  spirit  within.  But  I  could 


16  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

not  do  this  with  the  second  mate.  His  face  and  form  and 
manner  and  suave  ease  were  one  thing,  inside  which  he,  an 
entirely  different  thing,  lay  hid. 

I  noticed  Wada  standing  in  the  cabin  door,  evidently 
waiting  to  ask  for  instructions.  I  nodded,  and  prepared 
to  follow  him  inside.  Mr.  Pike  looked  at  me  quickly  and 
said : 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Pathurst." 

He  gave  some  orders  to  the  second  mate,  who  turned  on 
his  heel  and  started  for'ard.  I  stood  and  waited  for  Mr* 
Pike's  communication,  which  he  did  not  choose  to  make 
until  he  saw  the  second  mate  well  out  of  earshot.  Then 
he  leaned  closely  to  me  and  said: 

' '  Don 't  mention  that  little  matter  of  my  age  to  anybody. 
Each  year  I  sign  on  I  sign  my  age  one  year  younger.  I 
am  fifty-four,  now,  on  the  articles." 

"And  you  don't  look  a  day  older,"  I  answered  lightly, 
though  I  meant  it  in  all  sincerity. 

"And  I  don't  feel  it.  I  can  outwork  and  outgame  the 
huskiest  of  the  younglings.  And  don't  let  my  age  get  to 
anybody's  ears,  Mr.  Pathurst.  Skippers  are  not  particu 
lar  for  mates  getting  around  the  seventy  mark.  And  own 
ers  neither.  I've  had  my  hopes  for  this  ship,  and  I'd  V 
got  her,  I  think,  except  for  the  old  man  decidin'  to  go  to 
sea  again.  As  if  he  needed  the  money!  The  old  skin 
flint!" 

"Is  he  well  off?"  I  inquired. 

"Well  off!  If  I  had  a  tenth  of  his  money  I  could  re 
tire  on  a  chicken  ranch  in  California  and  live  like  a  fight 
ing  cock — yes,  if  I  had  a  fiftieth  of  what  he's  got  salted 
away.  Why,  he  owns  more  stock  in  all  the  Blackwood 
ships  .  .  .  and  they've  always  been  lucky  and  always 
earned  money.  I'm  getting  old,  and  it's  about  time  I  got 
a  command.  But  no;  the  old  cuss  has  to  take  it  into  his 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  17 

head  to  go  to  sea  again  just  as  the  berth's  ripe  for  me  to 
fall  into." 

Again  I  started  to  enter  the  cabin,  but  was  stopped  by 

the  mate. 

"Mr.  Pathurst?    You  won't  mention  about  my  age?" 
"No,  certainly  not,  Mr.  Pike,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER   III 

QUITE  chilled  through,  I  was  immediately  struck  by  the 
warm  comfort  of  the  cabin.  All  the  connecting  doors  were 
open,  making  what  I  might  call  a  large  suite  of  rooms  or 
a  whole  house.  The  main  deck  entrance,  on  the  port  side, 
was  into  a  wide,  well-carpeted  hallway.  Into  this  hallway, 
from  the  port  side,  opened  five  rooms:  first,  on  entering, 
the  mate's;  next,  the  two  staterooms  which  had  been 
knocked  into  one  for  me;  then  the  steward's  room;  and, 
adjoining  his,  completing  the  row,  a  stateroom  which  was 
used  for  the  slop-chest. 

Across  the  hall  was  a  region  with  which  I  was  not  yet 
acquainted,  though  I  knew  it  contained  the  dining  room, 
the  bathrooms,  the  cabin  proper,  which  was  in  truth  a  spa 
cious  living  room;  the  captain's  quarters,  and,  undoubt 
edly,  Miss  West's  quarters.  I  could  hear  her  humming 
some  air  as  she  bustled  about  with  her  unpacking.  The 
steward 's  pantry,  separated  by  cross-halls  and  by  the  stair 
way  leading  into  the  chartroom  above  the  poop,  was  placed 
strategically  in  the  center  of  all  its  operations.  Thus,  on 
the  starboard  side  of  it  were  the  staterooms  of  the  cap 
tain  and  Miss  West ;  for  'ard  of  it  was  the  dining  room  and 
main  cabin;  while  on  the  port  side  of  it  was  the  row  of 
rooms  I  have  described,  two  of  which  were  mine. 

I  ventured  down  the  hall  toward  the  stern,  and  found 
it  opened  into  the  stern  of  the  Elsinore,  forming  a  single 
large  apartment  at  least  thirty-five  feet  from  side  to  side 
and  fifteen  to  eighteen  feet  in  depth,  curved,  of  course,  to 
the  lines  of  the  ship's  stern.  This  seemed  a  storeroom. 
I  noted  washtubs,  bolts  of  canvas,  many  lockers,  hams  and 

18 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  19 

bacon  hanging,  a  stepladder  that  led  up  through  a  small 
hatch  to  the  poop,  and,  in  the  floor,  another  hatch. 

I  spoke  to  the  steward,  an  old  Chinese,  smooth-faced 
and  brisk  of  movement,  whose  name  I  never  learned,  but 
whose  age  on  the  articles  was  fifty-six. 

1  'What  is  down  there?"  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  hatch 
in  the  floor. 

"Him  lazarette, "  he  answered. 

"And  who  eats  there?"  I  indicated  a  table  with  two 
stationary  sea-chairs. 

' '  Him  second  table.  Second  mate  and  carpenter  him  eat 
that  table." 

When  I  had  finished  giving  instructions  to  Wada  for 
the  arranging  of  my  things,  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was 
early  yet,  only  several  minutes  after  three;  so  I  went  on 
deck  again  to  witness  the  arrival  of  the  crew. 

The  actual  coming  on  board  from  the  tug  I  had  missed, 
but  for'ard  of  the  amidship  house  I  encountered  a  few 
laggards  who  had  not  yet  gone  into  the  forecastle.  These 
were  the  worse  for  liquor,  and  a  more  wretched,  miserable, 
disgusting  group  of  men  I  had  never  seen  in  any  slum. 
Their  clothes  were  rags.  Their  faces  were  bloated,  bloody, 
and  dirty.  I  won't  say  they  were  villainous.  They  were 
merely  filthy  and  vile.  They  were  vile  of  appearance,  of 
speech,  of  action. 

"Come!    Come!    Get  your  dunnage  into  the  fo'c's'le!" 

Mr.  Pike  uttered  these  words  sharply  from  the  bridge 
above.  A  light  and  graceful  bridge  of  steel  rods  and 
planking  ran  the  full  length  of  the  Elsinore,  starting  from 
the  poop,  crossing  the  amidship  house  and  the  forecastle, 
and  connecting  with  the  forecastle-head  at  the  very  bow 
of  the  ship. 

At  the  mate's  command,  the  men  reeled  about  and  glow 
ered  up  at  him,  one  or  two  starting  clumsily  to  obey.  The 
others  ceased  their  drunken  yammerings  and  regarded  the 


20  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

mate  sullenly.  One  of  them,  with  a  face  mashed  by  some 
mad  god  in  the  making,  and  who  was  afterward  to  be 
known  by  me  as  Larry,  burst  into  a  guffaw  and  spat  inso 
lently  on  the  deck.  Then,  with  utmost  deliberation,  he 
turned  to  his  fellows  and  demanded  loudly  and  huskily : 

''Who  in  hell's  the  old  stiff  annyways?" 

I  saw  Mr.  Pike's  huge  form  tense  convulsively  and  in 
voluntarily,  and  I  noted  the  way  his  huge  hands  strained 
in  their  clutch  on  the  bridge  railing.  Beyond  that,  he  con 
trolled  himself. 

"Go  on,  you,"  he  said.  "I'll  have  nothing  out  of  you. 
Get  into  the  fo'c's'le." 

And  then,  to  my  surprise,  he  turned  and  walked  aft 
along  the  bridge  to  where  the  tug  was  casting  off  its  lines. 
So  this  was  all  his  high  and  mighty  talk  of  kill  and  drive, 
I  thought.  Not  until  afterward  did  I  recollect,  as  I  turned 
aft  down  the  deck,  that  I  saw  Captain  West  leaning  on 
the  rail  at  the  break  of  the  poop  and  gazing  for'ard. 

The  tug's  lines  were  being  cast  off,  and  I  was  interested 
in  watching  the  maneuver  until  she  had  backed  clear  of 
the  ship,  at  which  moment,  from  for'ard,  arose  a  queer 
babel  of  howling  and  yelping  as  numbers  of  drunken  voices 
cried  out  that  a  man  was  overboard.  The  second  mate 
sprang  down  the  poop  ladder  and  darted  past  me  along 
the  deck.  The  mate,  still  on  the  slender,  white-painted 
bridge  that  seemed  no  more  than  a  spider  thread,  sur 
prised  me  by  the  activity  with  which  he  dashed  along  the 
bridge  to  the  'midship  house,  leaped  upon  the  canvas- 
covered  longboat,  and  swung  outboard  where  he  might  see. 
Before  the  men  could  clamber  upon  the  rail  the  second 
mate  was  among  them,  and  it  was  he  who  flung  a  coil  of 
line  overboard. 

What  impressed  me  particularly  was  the  mental  and 
muscular  superiority  of  these  two  officers.  Despite  their 
age — the  mate  sixty-nine  and  the  second  mate  at  least  fifty 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  21 

— their  minds  and  their  bodies  had  acted  with  the  swift 
ness  and  accuracy  of  steel  springs.  They  were  potent. 
They  were  iron.  They  were  perceivers,  willers,  and  doers. 
They  were  as  of  another  species  compared  with  the  sailors 
under  them.  While  the  latter,  witnesses  of  the  happening 
and  directly  on  the  spot,  had  been  crying  out  in  befuddled 
helplessness  and  with  slow  wits  and  slower  bodies  been 
climbing  upon  the  rail,  the  second  mate  had  descended 
the  steep  ladder  from  the  poop,  covered  two  hundred  feet 
of  deck,  sprung  upon  the  rail,  grasped  the  instant  need  of 
the  situation,  and  cast  the  coil  of  line  into  the  water. 

And  of  the  same  nature  and  quality  had  been  the  actions 
of  Mr.  Pike.  He  and  Mr.  Mellaire  were  masters  over  the 
wretched  creatures  of  sailors  by  virtue  of  this  remarkable 
difference  of  efficiency  and  will.  Truly,  they  were  more 
widely  differentiated  from  the  men  under  them  than  were 
the  men  under  them  differentiated  from  Hottentots — ay, 
and  from  monkeys. 

I,  too,  by  this  time,  was  standing  on  the  big  hawser- 
bitts  in  a  position  to  see  a  man  in  the  water  who  seemed 
deliberately  swimming  away  from  the  ship.  He  was  a 
dark-skinned  Mediterranean  of  some  sort,  and  his  face,  in 
a  clear  glimpse  I  caught  of  it,  was  distorted  by  frenzy. 
His  black  eyes  were  maniacal.  The  line  was  so  accurately 
flung  by  the  second  mate  that  it  fell  across  the  man's 
shoulders,  and  for  several  strokes  his  arms  tangled  in  it 
ere  he  could  swim  clear.  This  accomplished,  he  proceeded 
to  scream  some  wild  harangue,  and  once,  as  he  uptossed 
his  arms  for  emphasis,  I  saw  in  his  hand  the  blade  of  a 
long  knife. 

Bells  were  jangling  on  the  tug,  as  it  started  to  the  rescue. 
I  stole  a  look  up  at  Captain  West.  He  had  walked  to  the 
port  side  of  the  poop,  where,  hands  in  pockets,  he  was 
glancing,  now  for'ard  at  the  struggling  man,  now  aft  at 


22  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  tug.    He  gave  no  orders,  betrayed  no  excitement,  and 
appeared,  I  may  well  say,  the  most  casual  of  spectators. 

The  creature  in  the  water  seemed  now  engaged  in  tak 
ing  off  his  clothes.  I  saw  one  bare  arm  and  then  the  other 
appear.  In  his  struggles  he  sometimes  sank  beneath  the 
surface,  but  always  he  emerged,  flourishing  the  knife  and 
screaming  his  addled  harangue.  He  even  tried  to  escape 
the  tug  by  diving  and  swimming  underneath. 

I  strolled  for'ard,  and  arrived  in  time  to  see  him  hoisted 
in  over  the  rail  of  the  Elsinore.     He  was  stark  naked,  cov 
ered  with  blood,   and  raving.     He  had  cut  and   slashed 
himself  in  a  score  of  places.     From  one  wound  in  the  wrist 
the  blood  spurted  with  each  beat  of  the  pulse.    He  was  a 
loathsome,  non-human  thing.     I  have  seen  a  scared  orang 
in  a  zoo,  and  for  all  the  world  this  bestial-faced,  mowing, 
gibbering  thing  reminded  me  of  the  orang.     The  sailors 
surrounded  him,  laying  hands  on  him,  withstraining  him, 
the  while  they  guffawed  and  cheered.     Right  and  left  the 
two  mates  shoved  them  away,  and  dragged  the  lunatic 
down  the  deck  and  into  a  room  in  the  'midship  house.    I 
could  not  help  marking  the  strength  of  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr. 
Mellaire.    I  had  heard  of  the  superhuman  strength  of  mad 
men,  but  this  particular  madman  was  as  a  wisp  of  straw 
in  their  hands.     Once  into  the  bunk,  Mr.  Pike  held  down 
the  struggling  fool  easily  with  one  hand  while  he  dis 
patched  the  second  mate  for  marlin  with  which  to  tie  the 
fellow's  arms. 

II  Bughouse,"  Mr.  Pike  grinned  at  me.    "I've  seen  some 
bughouse  crews  in  my  time,  but  this  one's  the  limit." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked.  "The  man  will 
bleed  to  death." 

"And  good  riddance,"  he  answered  promptly.  "We'll 
have  our  hands  full  of  him  until  we  can  lose  him  somehow. 
When  he  gets  easy  I'll  sew  him  up,  that's  all,  if  I  have  to 
ease  him  with  a  clout  on  the  jaw." 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  23 

I  glanced  at  the  mate's  huge  paw  and  appreciated  its 
anesthetic  qualities.  Out  on  deck  again,  I  saw  Captain 
West  on  the  poop,  hands  still  in  pockets,  quite  uninter 
ested,  gazing  at  a  blue  break  in  the  sky  to  the  northeast. 
More  than  the  mates  and  the  maniac,  more  than  the 
drunken  callousness  of  the  men,  did  this  quiet  figure,  hands 
in  pockets,  impress  upon  me  that  I  was  in  a  different  world 
from  any  I  had  known. 

Wada  broke  in  upon  my  thoughts  by  telling  me  he  had 
been  sent  to  say  that  Miss  West  was  serving  tea  in  the 
cabin. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE  contrast,  as  I  entered  the  cabin,  was  startling.  All 
contrasts  aboard  the  Elsinore  promised  to  be  startling.  In 
stead  of  the  cold,  hard  deck,  my  feet  sank  into  soft  carpet. 
In  place  of  the  mean  and  narrow  room,  built  of  naked 
iron,  where  I  had  left  the  lunatic,  I  was  in  a  spacious  and 
beautiful  apartment.  With  the  bawling  of  the  men 's  voices 
still  in  my  ears,  and  with  the  pictures  of  their  drink-puffed 
and  filthy  faces  still  vivid  under  my  eyelids,  I  found  my 
self  greeted  by  a  delicate-faced,  prettily  gowned  woman 
who  sat  beside  a  lacquered  oriental  table  on  which  rested 
an  exquisite  tea  service  of  Canton  china.  All  was  repose 
and  calm.  The  steward,  noiseless-footed,  expressionless, 
was  a  shadow,  scarcely  noticed,  that  drifted  into  the  room 
on  some  service  and  drifted  out  again. 

Not  at  once  could  I  relax,  and  Miss  West,  serving  my 
tea,  laughed  and  said: 

' '  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  seeing  things.  The  steward 
tells  me  a  man  has  been  overboard.  I  fancy  the  cold  water 
must  have  sobered  him." 

I  resented  her  unconcern. 

"The  man  is  a  lunatic,"  I  said.  "This  ship  is  no  place 
for  him.  He  should  be  sent  ashore  to  some  hospital." 

"I  am  afraid,  if  we  began  that,  we'd  have  to  send  two- 
thirds  of  our  complement  ashore — one  lump?" 

"Yes,  please,"  I  answered.  "But  the  man  has  terribly 
wounded  himself.  He  is  liable  to  bleed  to  death. ' 7 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  her  gray  eyes  serious 
and  scrutinizing,  as  she  passed  me  my  cup;  then  laughter 
welled  up  in  her  eyes,  and  she  shook  her  head  reprovingly. 

24 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE          25 

"Now,  please  don't  begin  the  voyage  by  being  shocked, 
Mr.  Pathurst.  Such  things  are  very  ordinary  occurrences. 
You'll  get  used  to  them.  You  must  remember  some  queer 
creatures  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.  The  man  is  safe. 
Trust  Mr.  Pike  to  attend  to  his  wounds.  I've  never  sailed 
with  Mr.  Pike,  but  I've  heard  enough  about  him.  Mr. 
Pike  is  quite  a  surgeon.  Last  voyage,  they  say,  he  per 
formed  a  successful  amputation,  and  so  elated  was  he  that 
he  turned  his  attention  on  the  carpenter,  who  happened 
to  be  suffering  from  some  sort  of  indigestion.  Mr.  Pike 
was  so  convinced  of  the  correctness  of  his  diagnosis  that  he 
tried  to  bribe  the  carpenter  into  having  his  appendix  re 
moved."  She  broke  off  to  laugh  heartily,  then  added: 
' '  They  say  he  offered  the  poor  man  just  pounds  and  pounds 
of  tobacco  to  consent  to  the  operation." 

"But  is  it  safe  .  .  .  for  the  .  .  .  the  working  of  the 
ship,"  I  urged,  "to  take  such  a  lunatic  along?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  if  not  intending  to  reply, 
then  said : 

"This  incident  is  nothing.  There  are  always  several 
lunatics  or  idiots  in  every  ship's  company.  And  they  al 
ways  come  aboard  filled  with  whiskey  and  raving.  I  re 
member,  once,  when  we  sailed  from  Seattle,  a  long  time 
ago,  one  such  madman.  He  showed  no  signs  of  madness  at 
all;  just  calmly  seized  two  boarding-house  runners  and 
sprang  overboard  with  them.  We  sailed  the  same  day, 
before  the  bodies  were  recovered." 

Again  she  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  would  you?  The  sea  is  hard,  Mr.  Pathurst.  And 
for  sailors  we  get  the  worst  types  of  men.  I  sometimes 
wonder  where  they  find  them.  And  we  do  our  best  with 
them,  and  somehow  manage  to  make  them  help  us  carry 
on  our  work  in  the  world.  But  they  are  low  .  .  .  low. ' ' 

As  I  listened,  and  studied  her  face,  contrasting  her 
woman's  sensitivity  and  her  soft  pretty  dress  with  the 


26  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

brute  faces  and  rags  of  the  men  I  had  noticed,  I  could  not 
help  being  convinced  intellectually  of  the  rightness  of  her 
position.  Nevertheless,  I  was  hurt  sentimentally — chiefly, 
I  do  believe,  because  of  the  very  hardness  and  unconcern 
with  which  she  enunciated  her  view.  It  was  because  she 
was  a  woman,  and  so  different  from  the  sea-creatures,  that 
I  resented  her  having  received  such  harsh  education  in  the 
school  of  the  sea. 

"I  could  not  help  remarking  your  father's — er,  er — sang 
froid  during  the  occurrence,"  I  ventured. 

1 1  He  never  took  his  hands  from  his  pockets ! ' '  she  cried. 

Her  eyes  sparkled  as  I  nodded  confirmation. 

1 '  I  knew  it !  It 's  his  way.  I  've  seen  it  so  often.  I  re 
member  when  I  was  twelve  years  old — mother  was  along — 
we  were  running  into  San  Francisco.  It  was  in  the  Dixie, 
a  ship  almost  as  big  as  this.  There  was  a  strong  fair  wind 
blowing,  and  father  did  not  take  a  tug.  We  sailed  right 
through  the  Golden  Gate  and  up  the  San  Francisco  water 
front.  There  was  a  swift  flood  tide,  too;  and  the  men, 
both  watches,  were  taking  in  sail  as  fast  as  they  could. 

"Now  the  fault  was  the  steamboat  captain's.  He  mis 
calculated  our  speed  and  tried  to  cross  our  bow.  Then 
came  the  collision,  and  the  Dixie's  bow  cut  through  that 
steamboat,  cabin  and  hull.  There  were  hundreds  of  pas 
sengers,  men,  women,  and  children.  Father  never  took 
his  hands  from  his  pockets.  He  sent  the  mate  for'ard  to 
superintend  rescuing  the  passengers  who  were  already 
climbing  on  to  our  bowsprit  and  forecastle-head,  and  in  a 
voice  no  different  from  what  he'd  used  to  ask  some  one 
to  pass  the  butter,  he  told  the  second  mate  to  set  all  sail. 
And  he  told  him  which  sails  to  begin  with." 

"But  why  set  more  sails?"  I  interrupted. 

"Because  he  could  see  the  situation.  Don't  you  see,  the 
steamboat  was  cut  wide  open.  All  that  kept  her  from 
sinking  instantly  was  the  bow  of  the  Dixie  jammed  into  her 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  27 

side.  By  setting  more  sail  and  keeping  before  the  wind, 
he  continued  to  keep  the  bow  of  the  Dixie  jammed. 

"I  was  terribly  frightened.  People  who  had  sprung  or 
fallen  overboard  were  drowning  on  each  side  of  us,  right 
in  my  sight,  as  we  sailed  along  up  the  waterfront.  But 
when  I  looked  at  father,  there  he  was,  just  as  I  had  always 
known  him,  hands  in  pockets,  walking  slowly  up  and  down, 
now  giving  an  order  to  the  wheel — you  see,  he  had  to  direct 
the  Dixie's  course  through  all  the  shipping — now  watching 
the  passengers  swarming  over  our  bow  and  along  our  deck, 
now  looking  ahead  to  see  his  way  through  the  ships  at 
anchor.  Sometimes  he  did  glance  at  the  poor,  drowning 
ones,  but  he  was  not  concerned  with  them. 

' '  Of  course,  there  were  numbers  drowned,  but  by  keeping 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  head  cool  he  saved  hun 
dreds  of  lives.  Not  until  the  last  person  was  off  the  steam 
boat — he  sent  men  aboard  to  make  sure — did  he  take  off 
the  press  of  sail.  And  the  steamboat  sank  at  once. ' ' 

She  ceased,  and  looked  at  me  with  shining  eyes  for  ap 
probation. 

' '  It  was  splendid, ' '  I  acknowledged.  ' 1 1  admire  the  quiet 
man  of  power,  though  I  confess  that  such  quietness  under 
stress  seems  to  me  almost  unearthly  and  beyond  human. 
I  can't  conceive  of  myself  acting  that  way,  and  I  am  con 
fident  that  I  was  suffering  more  while  that  poor  devil  was 
in  the  water  than  all  the  rest  of  the  onlookers  put  to 
gether." 

' '  Father  suffers ! "  she  defended  loyally.  ' '  Only  he  does 
not  show  it." 

I  bowed,  for  I  felt  she  had  missed  my  point. 


CHAPTER   V 

I  CAME  out  from  tea  in  the  cabin  to  find  the  tug  Britannia 
in  sight.     She  was  the  craft  that  was  to  tow  us  down 
Chesapeake   Bay  to   sea.     Strolling  for'ard,   I  noted  the 
sailors  being  routed  out  of  the  forecastle  by  Sundry  Buy 
ers,  forever  tenderly  pressing  his  abdomen  with  his  hands. 
Another  man  was  helping  Sundry  Buyers  at  routing  out 
the  sailors.     I  asked  Mr.  Pike  who  the  man  was. 

II  Nancy — my  bosun — ain't  he  a  peach?"  was  the  an 
swer  I  got,  and  from  the  mate's  manner  of  enunciation  I 
was  quite  aware  that  ''Nancy"  had  been  used  derisively. 

Nancy  could  not  have  been  more  than  thirty,  though  he 
looked  as  if  he  had  lived  a  very  long  time.  He  was  tooth 
less  and  sad  and  weary  of  movement.  His  eyes  were  slate- 
colored  and  muddy,  his  shaven  face  was  sickly  yellow.  Nar 
row-shouldered,  sunken-chested,  with  cheeks  cavernously 
hollow,  he  looked  like  a  man  in  the  last  stages  of  consump 
tion.  Little  life  as  Sundry  Buyers  showed,  Nancy  showed 
even  less  life.  And  these  were  bosuns ! — bosuns  of  the  fine 
American  sailing  ship  Elsinore!  Never  had  any  illusion 
of  mine  taken  a  more  distressing  cropper. 

It  was  plain  to  me  that  the  pair  of  them,  spineless  and 
spunkless,  were  afraid  of  the  men  they  were  supposed  to 
boss.  And  the  men!  Dore  could  never  have  conjured  a 
more  delectable  hell's  broth.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  them 
all,  and  I  could  not  blame  the  two  bosuns  for  being  afraid 
of  them.  They  did  not  walk.  They  slouched  and 
shambled,  some  even  tottered,  as  from  weakness  or  drink. 

But  it  was  their  faces.  I  could  not  help  remembering 
what  Miss  West  had  just  told  me — that  ships  always  sailed 

28 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  29 

with  several  lunatics  or  idiots  in  their  crews.  But  these 
looked  as  if  they  were  all  lunatic  or  feeble-minded.  And 
I,  too,  wondered  where  such  a  mass  of  human  wreckage 
could  have  been  obtained.  There  was  something  wrong 
with  all  of  them.  Their  bodies  were  twisted,  their  faces 
distorted,  and  almost  without  exception  they  were  under 
sized.  The  several  quite  fairly  large  men  I  marked  were 
vacant-faced.  One  man,  however,  large  and  unmistakably 
Irish,  was  also  unmistakably  mad.  He  was  talking  and 
muttering  to  himself  as  he  came  out.  A  little,  curved, 
lopsided  man,  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  with  the 
shrewdest  and  wickedest  of  faces  and  pale  blue  eyes,  ad 
dressed  an  obscene  remark  to  the  mad  Irishman,  calling 
him  0 'Sullivan.  But  0 'Sullivan  took  no  notice  and  mut 
tered  on.  On  the  heels  of  the  little  lopsided  man  appeared 
an  overgrown  dolt  of  a  fat  youth,  followed  by  another 
youth  so  tall  and  emaciated  of  body  that  it  seemed  a  mar 
vel  his  flesh  could  hold  his  frame  together. 

Next,  after  this  perambulating  skeleton,  came  the  weird 
est  creature  I  have  ever  beheld.  He  was  a  twisted  oaf 
of  a  man.  Face  and  body  were  twisted  as  with  the  pain 
of  a  thousand  years  of  torture.  His  was  the  face  of  an 
ill-treated  and  feeble-minded  faun.  His  large  black  eyes 
were  bright,  eager,  and  filled  with  pain;  and  they  flashed 
questioningly  from  face  to  face  and  to  everything  about. 
They  were  so  pitifully  alert,  those  eyes,  as  if  forever  astrain 
to  catch  the  clew  to  some  perplexing  and  threatening 
enigma.  Not  until  afterward  did  I  learn  the  cause  of  this. 
He  was  stone  deaf,  having  had  his  ear-drums  destroyed  in 
the  boiler  explosion  which  had  wrecked  the  rest  of  him. 

I  noticed  the  steward,  standing  at  the  galley  door  and 
watching  the  men  from  a  distance.  His  keen,  Asiatic  face, 
quick  with  intelligence,  was  a  relief  to  the  eye,  as  was 
the  vivid  face  of  Shorty,  who  came  out  of  the  forecastle 
with  a  leap  and  a  gurgle  of  laughter.  But  there  was  some- 


30  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

thing  wrong  with  him,  too.  He  was  a  dwarf,  and,  as  I 
was  to  come  to  know,  his  high  spirits  and  low  mentality 
united  to  make  him  a  clown. 

Mr.  Pike  stopped  beside  me  a  moment,  and  while  he 
watched  the  men  I  watched  him.  The  expression  on  his 
face  was  that  of  a  cattle-buyer,  and  it  was  plain  that  he 
was  disgusted  with  the  quality  of  cattle  delivered. 

" Something  the  matter  with  the  last  mother's  son  of 
them,"  he  growled. 

And  still  they  came;  one,  pallid,  furtive-eyed,  that  I 
instantly  adjudged  a  drug  fiend ;  another,  a  tiny,  weazened 
old  man,  pinch-faced  and  wrinkled,  with  beady,  malevo 
lent  blue  eyes;  a  third,  a  small,  well-fleshed  man,  who 
seemed  to  my  eye  the  most  normal  and  least  unintelligent 
specimen  that  had  yet  appeared.  But  Mr.  Pike's  eye 
was  better  trained  than  mine. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  snarled  at  the  man. 

"Nothing,  sir,"  the  fellow  answered,  stopping  imme 
diately. 

"What's  your  name?" 

Mr.  Pike  never  spoke  to  a  sailor  save  with  a  snarl. 

"Charles  Davis,  sir." 

"What  are  you  limping  about?" 

"I  ain't  limpin',  sir,"  the  man  answered  respectfully, 
and,  at  a  nod  of  dismissal  from  the  mate,  marched  off 
jauntily  along  the  deck  with  a  hoodlum  swing  to  the 
shoulders. 

"He's  a  sailor  all  right,"  the  mate  grumbled;  "but  I'll 
bet  you  a  pound  of  tobacco  or  a  month's  wages  there's 
something  wrong  with  him." 

The  forecastle  now  seemed  empty,  but  the  mate  turned 
on  the  bosuns  with  his  customary  snarl. 

"What  in  hell  are  you  doing?  Sleeping?  Think  this 
is  a  rest  cure?  Get  in  there  an'  rustle  'em  out!" 

Sundry  Buyers  pressed  his  abdomen  gingerly  and  hesi- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  31 

tated,  while  Nancy,  his  face  one  dogged,  long-suffering 
bleakness,  reluctantly  entered  the  forecastle.  Then,  from 
inside,  we  heard  oaths,  vile  and  filthy,  and  urgings  and  ex 
postulations  on  the  part  of  Nancy,  meekly  and  pleadingly 
uttered. 

I  noted  the  grim  and  savage  set  that  came  on  Mr.  Pike's 
face,  and  was  prepared  for  I  knew  not  what  awful  mon 
strosities  to  emerge  from  the  forecastle.  Instead,  to  my 
surprise,  came  three  fellows  who  were  strikingly  superior 
to  the  ruck  that  had  preceded  them.  I  looked  to  see  the 
mate's  face  soften  to  some  sort  of  approval.  On  the  con 
trary,  his  blue  eyes  contracted  to  narrow  slits,  the  snarl 
of  his  voice  was  communicated  to  his  lips  so  that  he  seemed 
like  a  dog  about  to  bite. 

But  the  three  fellows.  They  were  small  men,  all;  and 
young  men,  anywhere  between  twenty-five  and  thirty. 
Though  roughly  dressed,  they  were  well  dressed,  and  under 
their  clothes  their  bodily  movements  showed  physical  well 
being.  Their  faces  were  keen  cut,  intelligent.  And, 
though  I  felt  there  was  something  queer  about  them,  I 
could  not  divine  what  it  was. 

Here  were  no  ill-fed,  whiskey-poisoned  men,  such  as  the 
rest  of  the  sailors,  who,  having  drunk  up  their  last  pay 
days,  had  starved  ashore  until  they  had  received  and  drunk 
up  their  advance  money  for  the  present  voyage.  These 
three,  on  the  other  hand,  were  supple  and  vigorous.  Their 
movements  were  spontaneously  quick  and  accurate.  Per 
haps  it  was  the  way  they  looked  at  me,  with  incurious  yet 
calculating  eyes  that  nothing  escaped.  They  seemed  so 
worldly  wise,  so  indifferent,  so  sure  of  themselves.  I  was 
confident  they  were  not  sailors.  Yet,  as  shore-dwellers,  I 
could  not  place  them.  They  were  a  type  I  had  never  en 
countered.  Possibly  I  can  give  a  better  idea  of  them  by 
describing  what  occurred. 


32  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

As  they  passed  before  us  they  favored  Mr.  Pike  with 
the  same  indifferent,  keen  glances  they  gave  me. 

"What's  your  name — you?"  Mr.  Pike  barked  at  the 
first  of  the  trio,  evidently  a  hybrid  Irish-Jew.  Jewish  his 
nose  unmistakably  was.  Equally  unmistakable  was  the 
Irish  of  his  eyes,  and  jaw,  and  upper  lip. 

The  three  had  immediately  stopped,  and,  though  they 
did  not  look  directly  at  one  another,  they  seemed  to  be 
holding  a  silent  conference.  Another  of  the  trio,  in  whose 
veins  ran  God  alone  knows  what  Semitic,  Babylonish  and 
Latin  strains,  gave  a  warning  signal. — Oh,  nothing  so  crass 
as  a  wink  or  a  nod.  I  almost  doubted  that  I  had  inter 
cepted  it,  and  yet  I  knew  he  had  communicated  a  warning 
to  his  fellows.  More  a  shade  of  expression  that  had 
crossed  his  eyes,  or  a  glint  in  them  of  sudden  light — or 
whatever  it  was,  it  carried  the  message. 

"Murphy,"  the  other  answered  the  mate. 

"Sir!"  Mr.  Pike  snarled  at  him. 

Murphy  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  token  that  he  did  not 
understand.  It  was  the  poise  of  the  man,  of  the  three  of 
them,  the  cool  poise  that  impressed  me. 

"When  you  address  any  officer  on  this  ship  you'll  say 
'sir,'  "  Mr.  Pike  explained,  his  voice  as  harsh  as  his  face 
was  forbidding.  "Did  you  get  that?" 

"Yes,  .  .  .  sir,"  Murphy  drawled  with  deliberate  slow 
ness.  "I  gotcha." 

"Sir!"  Mr.  Pike  roared. 

"Sir,"  Murphy  answered,  so  softly  and  carelessly  that 
it  irritated  the  mate  to  further  bullyragging. 

"Well,  Murphy's  too  long,"  he  announced.  "Nosey '11 
do  you  aboard  this  craft.  Got  that?" 

1 l  I  gotcha,  .  .  .  sir, ' '  came  the  reply,  insolent  in  its  very 
softness  and  unconcern.  "Nosey  Murphy  goes,  .  .  .  sir." 

And  then  he  laughed — the  three  of  them  laughed,  if 
laughter  it  might  be  called  that  was  laughter  without 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE  33 

sound  or  facial  movement.  The  eyes  alone  laughed,  mirth 
lessly  and  cold-bloodedly. 

Certainly  Mr.  Pike  was  not  enjoying  himself  with  these 
baffling  personalities.  He  turned  upon  the  leader,  the  one 
who  had  given  the  warning  and  who  looked  the  admixture 
of  all  that  was  Mediterranean  and  Semitic. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Bert  Rhine,  .  .  .  sir,"  was  the  reply,  in  tones  as  soft 
and  careless  and  silkily  irritating  as  the  other's. 

"And  you?" — this  to  the  remaining  one,  the  youngest 
of  the  trio,  a  dark-eyed,  olive-skinned  fellow  with  a  face 
most  striking  in  its  cameo-like  beauty.  American-born,  I 
placed  him,  of  immigrants  from  Southern  Italy — from 
Naples,  or  even  Sicily. 

"Twist,  .  .  .  sir,"  he  answered,  precisely  in  the  same 
manner  as  the  others. 

"Too  long,"  the  mate  sneered.  "The  Kid '11  do  you. 
Get  that?" 

"I  gotcha,  .  .  .  sir.    Kid  Twist '11  do  me,  ...  sir." 

"Kid '11  do!" 

"Kid,  .  .  .  sir." 

And  the  three  laughed  their  silent,  mirthless  laugh. 
By  this  time  Mr.  Pike  was  beside  himself  with  a  rage  that 
could  find  no  excuse  for  action. 

"Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,  the  bunch  of 
you,  for  the  good  of  your  health!"  The  mate's  voice 
grated  with  the  rage  he  was  suppressing.  "I  know  your 
kind.  You're  dirt.  D'ye  get  that?  You're  dirt.  And 
on  this  ship  you'll  be  treated  as  dirt.  You'll  do  your 
work  like  men,  or  I  '11  know  the  reason  why.  The  first  time 
one  of  you  bats  an  eye,  or  even  looks  like  batting  an  eye, 
he  gets  his.  D'ye  get  that?  Now  get  out.  Get  along 
for'ard  to  the  windlass." 

Mr.  Pike  turned  on  his  heel,  and  I  swung  alongside  of 
him  as  he  moved  aft. 


34  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 


t  i  i 


'What  do  you  make  of  them?"  I  queried. 
The    limit,"    he    grunted.      "I    know    their    kidney. 
They've  done  time,  the  three  of  them.     They're  just  plain 
sweepings  of  hell 

Here  his  speech  was  broken  off  by  the  spectacle  that 
greeted  him  on  Number  Two  hatch.  Sprawled  out  on  the 
hatch  were  five  or  six  men,  among  them  Larry,  the  tatter 
demalion  who  had  called  him  "old  stiff"  earlier  in  the 
afternoon.  That  Larry  had  not  obeyed  orders  was  patent, 
for  he  was  sitting  with  his  back  propped  against  his  sea- 
bag,  which  ought  to  have  been  in  the  forecastle.  Also,  he 
and  the  group  with  him  ought  to  have  been  for'ard  man 
ning  the  windlass. 

The  mate  stepped  upon  the  hatch  and  towered  over  the 
man. 

"Get  up,"  he  ordered. 

Larry  made  an  effort,  groaned,  and  failed  to  get  up. 

"I  can't,"  he  said. 

"Sir!" 

"I  can't,  sir.  I  was  drunk  last  night  an'  slept  in  Jeffer 
son  Market.  An'  this  mornin'  I  was  froze  tight,  sir.  They 
had  to  pry  me  loose. ' ' 

"Stiff  with  the  cold  you  were,  eh?"  the  mate  grinned. 

"It's  well  ye  might  say  it,  sir,"  Larry  answered. 

"And  you  feel  like  an  old  stiff,  eh?" 

Larry  blinked  with  the  troubled,  querulous  eyes  of  a 
monkey.  He  was  beginning  to  apprehend  he  knew  not 
what,  and  he  knew  that  bending  over  him  was  a  man- 
master. 

"Well,  I'll  just  be  showin'  you  what  an  old  stiff  feels 
like,  anny ways, ' '  Mr.  Pike  mimicked  the  other 's  brogue. 

And  now  I  shall  tell  what  I  saw  happen.  Please  remem 
ber  what  I  have  said  of  the  huge  paws  of  Mr.  Pike,  the 
fingers  much  longer  than  mine  and  twice  as  thick,  the 


THE    MUTINY    OP    THE    ELSINORE  35 

wrists  massive-boned,  the  arm  bones  and  the  shoulder  bones 
of  the  same  massive  order.  With  one  flip  of  his  right 
hand,  with  what  I  might  call  an  open-handed,  lifting,  up 
ward  slap,  save  that  it  was  the  ends  of  the  fingers  only  that 
touched  Larry's  face,  he  lifted  Larry  into  the  air,  sprawl 
ing  him  backward  on  his  back  across  his  sea-bag. 

The  man  alongside  of  Larry  emitted  a  menacing  growl 
and  started  to  spring  belligerently  to  his  feet.  But  he  never 
reached  his  feet.  Mr.  Pike,  with  the  back  of  same  right 
hand,  open,  smote  the  man  on  the  side  of  the  face.  The 
loud  smack  of  the  impact  was  startling.  The  mate's 
strength  was  amazing.  The  blow  looked  so  easy,  so  effort 
less;  it  had  seemed  like  the  lazy  stroke  of  a  good-natured 
bear,  but  in  it  was  such  a  weight  of  bone  and  muscle  that 
the  man  went  down  sidewise  and  rolled  off  the  hatch  onto 
the  deck. 

At  this  moment,  lurching  aimlessly  along,  appeared 
O 'Sullivan.  A  sudden  access  of  muttering,  on  his  part, 
reached  Mr.  Pike's  ear,  and  Mr.  Pike,  instantly  keen  as  a 
wild  animal,  his  paw  in  the  act  of  striking  0 'Sullivan, 
whipped  out  like  a  revolver  shot,  "What's  that?"  Then 
he  noted  the  sense-struck  face  of  0 'Sullivan  and  withheld 
the  blow.  "Bughouse,"  Mr.  Pike  commented. 

Involuntarily  I  had  glanced  to  see  if  Captain  West  was 
on  the  poop,  and  found  that  we  were  hidden  from  the 
poop  by  the  'midship  house. 

Mr.  Pike,  taking  no  notice  of  the  man  who  lay  groaning 
on  the  deck,  stood  over  Larry,  who  was  likewise  groaning. 
The  rest  of  the  sprawling  men  were  on  their  feet,  sub 
dued  and  respectful.  I,  too,  was  respectful  of  this  terrific, 
aged  figure  of  a  man.  The  exhibition  had  quite  convinced 
me  of  the  verity  of  his  earlier  driving  and  killing  days. 

"Who's  the  old  stiff  now?"  he  demanded. 

"  'Tis  me,  sir,"  Larry  moaned  contritely. 


36  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"Get  up!" 

Larry  got  up  without  any  difficulty  at  all. 
"Now  get  for'ard  to  the  windlass!     The  rest  of  you!" 
And  they  went,  sullenly,  shamblingly,  like  the   cowed 
brutes  they  were. 


CHAPTER   VI 

I  CLIMBED  the  ladder  on  the  side  of  the  for'ard  house 
(which  house  contained,  as  I  discovered,  the  forecastle,  the 
galley,  and  the  donkey-engine  room),  and  went  part  way 
along  the  bridge  to  a  position  by  the  foremast  where  I 
could  observe  the  crew  heaving  up  anchor.  The  Britannia 
was  alongside,  and  we  were  getting  under  way. 

A  considerable  body  of  men  was  walking  around  with 
the  windlass  or  variously  engaged  on  the  forecastle-head. 
Of  the  crew  proper  were  two  watches  of  fifteen  men  each. 
In  addition  were  sailmakers,  boys,  bosuns,  and  the  car 
penter.  Nearly  forty  men  were  they,  but  such  men !  They 
were  sad  and  lifeless.  There  was  no  vim,  no  go,  no  activity. 
Every  step  and  movement  was  an  effort,  as  if  they  were 
dead  men  raised  out  of  coffins  or  sick  men  dragged  from 
hospital  beds.  Sick  they  were — whiskey-poisoned.  Starved 
they  were,  and  weak  from  poor  nutrition.  And,  worst  of 
all,  they  were  imbecile  and  lunatic. 

I  looked  aloft  at  the  intricate  ropes,  at  the  steel  masts 
rising  and  carrying  huge  yards  of  steel,  rising  higher  and 
higher,  until  steel  masts  and  yards  gave  way  to  slender 
spars  of  wood,  while  ropes  and  stays  turned  into  a  delicate 
tracery  of  spider-thread  against  the  sky.  That  such  a 
wretched  muck  of  men  should  be  able  to  work  this  magnifi 
cent  ship  through  all  storm  and  darkness  and  peril  of  the 
sea  was  beyond  all  seeming.  I  remembered  the  two  mates, 
the  super-efficiency,  mental  and  physical,  of  Mr.  Mellaire 
and  Mr.  Pike — could  they  make  this  human  wreckage  do 
it?  They,  at  least,  evinced  no  doubts  of  their  ability. 
The  sea  ?  If  this  feat  of  mastery  were  possible,  then  clear 
it  was  that  I  knew  nothing  of  the  sea. 

37 


38  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

I  looked  back  at  the  misshapen,  starved,  sick,  stumbling 
hulks  of  men  who  trod  the  dreary  round  of  the  windlass. 
Mr.  Pike  was  right.  These  were  not  the  brisk,  devilish, 
able-bodied  men  who  manned  the  ships  of  the  old  clipper- 
ship  days ;  who  fought  their  officers,  who  had  the  points  of 
their  sheath-knives  broken  off,  who  killed  and  were  killed, 
but  who  did  their  work  as  men.  These  men,  these  sham 
bling  carcasses  at  the  windlass — I  looked,  and  looked,  and 
vainly  I  strove  to  conjure  the  vision  of  them  swinging  aloft 
in  rack  and  storm,  '  *  clearing  the  raffle, ' '  as  Kipling  puts  it, 
"with  their  clasp  knives  in  their  teeth."  Why  didn't 
they  sing  a  chanty  as  they  hove  the  anchor  up  ?  In  the  old 
days,  as  I  had  read,  the  anchor  always  came  up  to  the 
rollicking  sailor  songs  of  sea-chested  men. 

I  tired  of  watching  the  spiritless  performance,  and  went 
aft  on  an  exploring  trip  along  the  slender  bridge.  It  was 
a  beautiful  structure,  strong  yet  light,  traversing  the  length 
of  the  ship  in  three  aerial  leaps.  It  spanned  from  the 
forecastle-head  to  the  forecastle-house,  next  to  the  'midship 
house,  and  then  to  the  poop.  The  poop,  which  was  really 
the  roof  or  deck  over  all  the  cabin  space  below,  and  which 
occupied  the  whole  after-part  of  the  ship,  was  very  large. 
It  was  broken  only  by  the  half-round  and  half-covered 
wheelhouse  at  the  very  stern  and  by  the  charthouse.  On 
either  side  of  the  latter  two  doors  opened  into  a  tiny  hall 
way.  This,  in  turn,  gave  access  to  the  chartroom  and  to  a 
stairway  that  led  down  into  the  cabin  quarters  beneath. 

I  peeped  into  the  chartroom  and  was  greeted  with  a  smile 
by  Captain  West.  He  was  lolling  back  comfortably  in  a 
swing  chair,  his  feet  cocked  on  the  desk  opposite.  On  a 
broad,  upholstered  couch  sat  the  pilot.  Both  were  smoking 
cigars,  and,  lingering  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  con 
versation,  I  grasped  that  the  pilot  was  an  ex-sea  captain. 

As  I  descended  the  stairs,  from  Miss  West's  room  came 
a  sound  of  humming  and  bustling,  as  she  settled  her  be- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  39 

longings.  The  energy  she  displayed,  to  judge  by  the  cheer 
ful  noises  of  it,  was  almost  perturbing. 

Passing  by  the  pantry,  I  put  my  head  inside  the  door 
to  greet  the  steward  and  courteously  let  him  know  that  I 
was  aware  of  his  existence.  Here,  in  his  little  realm,  it 
was  plain  that  efficiency  reigned.  Everything  was  spotless 
and  in  order,  and  I  could  have  wished  and  wished  vainly 
for  a  more  noiseless  servant  than  he  ashore.  His  face,  as 
he  regarded  me,  had  as  little  or  as  much  expression  as  the 
Sphinx.  But  his  slant  black  eyes  were  bright  with  in 
telligence. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  crew?"  I  asked,  in  order  to 
put  words  to  my  invasion  of  his  castle. 

"Buggy  house,"  he  answered  promptly,  with  a  dis 
gusted  shake  of  the  head.  "Too  much  buggy  house.  All 
crazy.  You  see.  No  good.  Rotten.  Damn  to  hell." 

That  was  all,  but  it  verified  my  own  judgment.  While 
it  might  be  true,  as  Miss  West  had  said,  that  every  ship's 
crew  contained  several  lunatics  and  idiots,  it  was  a  fore 
gone  conclusion  that  our  crew  contained  far  more  than 
several.  In  fact,  arid  as  it  was  to  turn  out,  our  crew, 
even  in  these  degenerate  sailing  days,  was  an  unusual  crew 
insofar  as  its  helplessness  and  worthlessness  were  beyond 
the  average. 

I  found  my  own  room  (in  reality  it  was  two  rooms)  de 
lightful.  Wada  had  unpacked  and  stored  away  my  entire 
outfit  of  clothing,  and  had  filled  numerous  shelves  with 
the  library  I  had  brought  along.  Everything  was  in  order 
and  place,  from  my  shaving  outfit  in  the  drawer  beside 
the  washbasin  and  my  sea-boots  and  oilskins  hung  ready  to 
hand  to  my  writing  materials  on  the  desk,  before  which  a 
swing  armchair,  leather-upholstered  and  screwed  solidly  to 
the  floor,  invited  me.  My  pajamas  and  dressing  gown  were 
out.  My  slippers,  in  their  accustomed  place  by  the  bed, 
also  invited  me. 


40  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Here,  aft,  all  was  fitness,  intelligence.  On  deck  it  was 
what  I  have  described — a  nightmare  spawn  of  creatures, 
assumably  human,  but  malformed,  mentally  and  physi 
cally,  into  caricatures  of  men.  Yes,  it  was  an  unusual 
crew;  and  that  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire  could  whip  it 
into  the  efficient  shape  necessary  to  work  this  vast  and 
intricate  and  beautiful  fabric  of  a  ship  was  beyond  all 
seeming  of  possibility. 

Depressed  as  I  was  by  what  I  had  just  witnessed  on 
deck,  there  came  to  me,  as  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and 
opened  the  second  volume  of  George  Moore's  "Hail  and 
Farewell,"  a  premonition  that  the  voyage  was  to  be  disas 
trous.  But  then,  as  I  looked  about  the  room,  measured  its 
generous  space,  realized  that  I  was  more  comfortably  situ 
ated  than  I  had  ever  been  on  any  passenger  steamer,  I  dis 
missed  foreboding  thoughts  and  caught  a  pleasant  vision 
of  myself,  through  weeks  and  months,  catching  up  with  all 
the  necessary  reading  which  I  had  so  long  neglected. 

Once  I  asked  Wada  if  he  had  seen  the  crew.  No,  he 
hadn't,  but  the  steward  had  said  that  in  all  his  years  at 
sea  this  was  the  worst  crew  he  had  ever  seen. 

"He  say  all  crazy,  no  sailors,  rotten,"  Wada  said.  "He 
say  all  big  fools  and  bimeby  much  trouble.  'You  see,'  he 
say  all  the  time.  *  You  see.  You  see. '  He  pretty  old  man 
— fifty-five  years,  he  say.  Very  smart  man  for  Chinaman. 
Just  now,  first  time  for  long  time,  he  go  to  sea.  Before, 
he  have  big  business  in  San  Francisco.  Then  he  get  much 
trouble — police.  They  say  he  opium  smuggle.  Oh,  big, 
big  trouble.  But  he  catch  good  lawyer.  He  no  go  to  jail. 
But  long  time  lawyer  work,  and  when  trouble  all  finish 
lawyer  got  all  his  business,  all  his  money,  everything. 
Then  he  go  to  sea,  like  before.  He  make  good  money.  He 
get  sixty-five  dollars  a  month  on  this  ship.  But  he  don't 
like.  Crew  all  crazy.  When  this  time  finish  he  leave 
ship,  go  back,  start  business  in  San  Francisco." 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  41 

Later,  when  I  had  Wada  open  one  of  the  ports  for  venti 
lation,  I  could  hear  the  gurgle  and  swish  of  water  along 
side,  and  I  knew  the  anchor  was  up  and  that  we  were  in 
the  grip  of  the  Britannia  towing  down  the  Chesapeake  to 
sea.  The  idea  suggested  itself  that  it  was  not  too  late.  I 
could  very  easily  abandon  the  adventure  and  return  to 
Baltimore  on  the  Britannia  when  she  cast  off  the  Elsinore. 
And  then  I  heard  a  slight  tinkling  of  china  from  the  pantry 
as  the  steward  proceeded  to  set  the  table,  and,  also,  it  was 
so  warm  and  comfortable,  and  George  Moore  was  so  irri- 
tatingly  fascinating. 


CHAPTER   VII 

IN  every  way  dinner  proved  beyond  my  expectations,  and 
I  registered  a  note  that  the  cook,  whoever  or  whatever  he 
might  be,  was  a  capable  man  at  his  trade.  Miss  "West 
served,  and,  though  she  and  the  steward  were  strangers, 
they  worked  together  splendidly.  I  should  have  thought, 
from  the  smoothness  of  the  service,  that  he  was  an  old 
house  servant  who  for  years  had  known  her  every  way. 

The  pilot  ate  in  the  charthouse,  so  that  at  table  were  the 
four  of  us  that  would  always  be  at  table  together.  Captain 
West  and  his  daughter  faced  each  other,  while  I,  on  the 
captain's  right,  faced  Mr.  Pike.  This  put  Miss  West  across 
the  corner  on  my  right. 

Mr.  Pike,  his  dark  sack  coat  (put  on  for  the  meal)  bulg 
ing  and  wrinkling  over  the  lumps  of  muscle  that  padded 
his  stooped  shoulders,  had  nothing  at  all  to  say.  But  he 
had  eaten  too  many  years  at  captain's  tables  not  to  have 
proper  table  manners.  At  first  I  thought  he  was  abashed 
by  Miss  West's  presence.  Later,  I  decided  it  due  to  the 
presence  of  the  captain.  For  Captain  West  had  a  way 
with  him  that  I  was  beginning  to  learn.  Far  removed  as 
Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire  were  from  the  sailors;  indi 
viduals  as  they  were  of  an  entirely  different  and  superior 
breed;  yet,  equally  as  different  and  far  removed  from  his 
officers  was  Captain  West.  He  was  a  serene  and  absolute 
aristocrat.  He  neither  talked  "ship"  nor  anything  else 
to  Mr.  Pike. 

On  the  other  hand,  Captain  West's  attitude  toward  me 
was  that  of  a  social  equal.  But,  then,  I  was  a  passenger. 
Miss  West  treated  me  the  same  way,  but  unbent  more  to 

42 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE   ELSINORE  43 

Mr.  Pike.  And  Mr.  Pike,  answering  her  with  "Yes,  Miss/' 
and  ' '  No,  Miss, ' '  ate  good-manneredly  and  with  his  shaggy- 
browed  gray  eyes  studied  me  across  the  table.  I,  too, 
studied  him.  Despite  his  violent  past,  killer  and  driver 
that  he  was,  I  could  not  help  liking  the  man.  He  was  hon 
est,  genuine.  Almost  more  than  for  that,  I  liked  him  for 
the  spontaneous  boyish  laugh  he  gave  on  the  occasions 
when  I  reached  the  points  of  several  funny  stories.  No 
man  could  laugh  like  that  and  be  all  bad.  I  was  glad  that 
it  was  he,  and  not  Mr.  Mellaire,  who  was  to  sit  opposite 
throughout  the  voyage.  And  I  was  very  glad  that  Mr. 
Mellaire  was  not  to  eat  with  us  at  all. 

I  am  afraid  that  Miss  West  and  I  did  most  of  the  talk 
ing.  She  was  breezy,  vivacious,  tonic,  and  I  noted  again 
that  the  delicate,  almost  fragile  oval  of  her  face  was  given 
the  lie  by  her  body.  She  was  a  robust,  healthy  young 
woman.  That  was  undeniable. — Not  fat — heaven  forbid ! — 
not  even  plump ;  yet  her  lines  had  that  swelling  roundness 
that  accompanies  long,  live  muscles.  She  was  full-bodied, 
vigorous;  and  yet  not  so  full-bodied  as  she  seemed.  I  re 
member  with  what  surprise,  when  we  arose  from  table,  I 
noted  her  slender  waist.  At  that  moment  I  got  the  im 
pression  that  she  was  willowy.  And  willowy  she  was,  with 
a  normal  waist,  and  with,  in  addition,  always  that  inform 
ing  bodily  vigor  that  made  her  appear  rounder  and  ro- 
buster  than  she  really  was. 

It  was  the  health  of  her  that  interested  me.  When  I 
studied  her  face  more  closely,  I  saw  that  only  the  lines 
of  the  oval  of  it  were  delicate.  Delicate  it  was  not,  nor 
fragile.  The  flesh  was  firm,  and  the  texture  of  the  skin 
was  firm  and  fine  as  it  moved  over  the  firm  muscles  of  face 
and  neck.  The  neck  was  a  beautiful  and  adequate  pillar 
of  white.  Its  flesh  was  firm,  its  skin  fine,  and  it  was  mus 
cular.  The  hands,  too,  attracted  me — not  small,  but  well 
shaped,  fine,  white  and  strong,  and  well  cared  for.  I  could 


44  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

only  conclude  that  she  was  an  unusual  captain's  daughter, 
just  as  her  father  was  an  unusual  captain  and  man.  And 
their  noses  were  alike,  just  the  hint-touch  of  the  beak  of 
power  and  race. 

While  Miss  West  was  telling  of  the  unexpectedness  of  the 
voyage,  of  how  suddenly  she  had  decided  to  come — she  ac 
counted  for  it  as  a  whim — and  while  she  told  of  all  the 
complications  she  had  encountered  in  her  haste  of  prepara 
tion,  I  found  myself  casting  up  a  tally  of  the  efficient  ones 
on  board  the  Elsinore.  They  were  Captain  West  and  his 
daughter,  the  two  mates,  myself,  of  course,  Wada  and  the 
steward,  and,  beyond  the  shadow  of  'a  doubt,  the  cook. 
The  dinner  vouched  for  him.  Thus,  I  found  our  total  of 
efficients  to  be  eight.  But  the  cook,  the  steward,  and  Wada 
were  servants,  not  sailors,  while  Miss  West  and  myself 
were  supernumeraries.  Remained  to  work,  direct,  do,  but 
three  efficients  out  of  a  total  ship's  company  of  forty-five. 
I  had  no  doubt  that  other  efficients  there  were;  it  seemed 
impossible  that  my  first  impression  of  the  crew  should 
be  correct.  There  was  the  carpenter.  He  might,  at  his 
trade,  be  as  good  as  the  cook.  Then  the  two  sailmakers, 
whom  I  had  not  yet  seen,  might  prove  up. 

A  little  later  during  the  meal  I  ventured  to  talk  about 
what  had  interested  me  and  aroused  my  admiration,  name 
ly,  the  masterfulness  with  which  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire 
had  gripped  hold  of  that  woeful,  worthless  crew.  It  was 
all  new  to  me,  I  explained,  but  I  appreciated  the  need  of 
it.  As  I  led  up  to  the  occurrence  on  Number  Two  hatch 
when  Mr.  Pike  had  lifted  up  Larry  and  toppled  him  back 
with  a  mere  slap  from  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  I  saw  in 
Mr.  Pike's  eyes  a  warning,  almost  threatening,  expression. 
Nevertheless,  I  completed  my  description  of  the  episode. 

When  I  had  quite  finished  there  was  a  silence.  Miss  West 
was  busy  serving  coffee  from  a  copper  percolator.  Mr. 
Pike,  profoundly  occupied  with  cracking  walnuts,  could 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  45 

not  quite  hide  the  wicked  little,  half-humorous,  half-re 
vengeful  gleam  in  his  eyes.  Captain  West  looked  straight 
at  me,  but  from  oh,  such  a  distance — millions  and  millions 
of  miles  away.  His  clear  blue  eyes  were  as  serene  as  ever, 
his  tones  as  low  and  soft. 

"It  is  the  one  rule  I  ask  to  be  observed,  Mr.  Pathurst. 
We  never  discuss  the  sailors." 

It  was  a  facer  to  me,  and  with  quite  a  pronounced  fel 
low  feeling  for  Larry  I  hurriedly  added : 

' '  It  was  not  merely  the  discipline  that  interested  me.  It 
was  the  feat  of  strength. ' ' 

"Sailors  are  trouble  enough  without  our  hearing  about 
them,  Mr.  Pathurst,"  Captain  West  went  on  as  evenly  and 
imperturbably  as  if  I  had  not  spoken.  "I  leave  the 
handling  of  the  sailors  to  my  officers.  That's  their  busi 
ness,  and  they  are  quite  aware  that  I  tolerate  no  undeserved 
roughness  or  severity." 

Mr.  Pike's  harsh  face  carried  the  faintest  shadow  of  an 
amused  grin  as  he  stolidly  regarded  the  tablecloth.  I 
glanced  to  Miss  West  for  sympathy.  She  laughed  frankly, 
and  said: 

' '  You  see,  father  never  has  any  sailors.  And  it 's  a  good 
plan,  too." 

"A  very  good  plan,"  Mr.  Pike  muttered. 

Then  Miss  West  kindly  led  the  talk  away  from  that 
subject,  and  soon  had  us  laughing  with  a  spirited  recital 
of  a  recent  encounter  of  hers  with  a  Boston  cab-driver. 

Dinner  over,  I  stepped  to  my  room  in  quest  of  cigarettes, 
and  incidentally  asked  Wada  about  the  cook.  Wada  was 
always  a  great  gatherer  of  information. 

"His  name  Louis,"  he  said.  "He  Chinaman,  too.  No; 
only  half  Chinaman.  Other  half  Englishman.  You  know 
one  island  Napoleon  he  stop  long  time  and  bimeby  die  that 
island?" 

"St.  Helena,"  I  prompted. 


46  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"Yes,  that  place  Louis  he  born.  He  talk  very  good 
English." 

At  this  moment,  entering  the  hall  from  the  deck,  Mr. 
Mellaire,  just  relieved  by  the  mate,  passed  me  on  his  way 
to  the  big  room  in  the  stern  where  the  second  table  was 
set.  His  "Good  evening,  sir,"  was  as  stately  and  cour 
teous  as  any  Southern  gentleman  of  the  old  days  could 
have  uttered  it.  And  yet  I  could  not  like  the  man.  His 
outward  seeming  was  so  at  variance  with  the  personality 
that  resided  within.  Even  as  he  spoke,  and  smiled,  I  felt 
that  from  inside  his  skull  he  was  watching  me,  studying 
me.  And  somehow,  in  a  flash  of  intuition,  I  knew  not  why, 
I  was  reminded  of  the  three  strange  young  men,  routed 
last  from  the  forecastle,  to  whom  Mr.  Pike  had  read  the 
law.  They,  too,  had  given  me  a  similar  impression. 

Behind  Mr.  Mellaire  slouched  a  self-conscious,  embar 
rassed  individual,  with  the  face  of  a  stupid  boy  and  the 
body  of  a  giant.  His  feet  were  even  larger  than  Mr.  Pike's, 
but  the  hands — I  shot  a  quick  glance  to  see — were  not  so 
large  as  Mr.  Pike's. 

As  they  passed,  I  looked  inquiry  to  Wada. 

"He  carpenter.  He  eat  second  table.  His  name  Sam 
Lavroff.  He  come  from  New  York  on  ship.  Steward  say 
he  very  young  for  carpenter,  maybe  twenty-two,  three 
years  old." 

As  I  approached  the  open  port  over  my  desk,  I  again 
heard  the  swish  and  gurgle  of  water  and  again  realized 
that  we  were  under  way.  So  steady  and  noiseless  was  our 
progress  that,  say  seated  at  table,  it  never  entered  one's 
head  that  we  were  moving  or  were  anywhere  save  on  the 
solid  land.  I  had  been  used  to  steamers  all  my  life,  and 
it  was  difficult  immediately  to  adjust  myself  to  the  ab 
sence  of  the  propeller-thrust  vibration. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  I  asked  Wada,  who,  like 
myself,  had  never  made  a  sailing-ship  voyage. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  47 

He  smiled  politely. 

"Very  funny  ship.    Very  funny  sailors.    I  don't  know. 
Mebbe  all  right.     We  see." 

"You  think  trouble?"  I  asked  pointedly. 
1 '  I  think  sailors  very  funny, ' '  he  evaded. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

HAVIN©  lighted  my  cigarette,  I  strolled  for'ard  along  the 
deck  to  where  work  was  going  on.  Above  my  head  dim 
shapes  of  canvas  showed  in  the  starlight.  Sail  was  being 
made,  and  being  made  slowly,  as  I  might  judge,  who  was 
only  the  veriest  tyro  in  such  matters.  The  indistinguish 
able  shapes  of  men,  in  long  lines,  pulled  on  ropes.  They 
pulled  in  sick  and  dogged  silence,  though  Mr.  Pike,  ubiqui 
tous,  snarled  out  orders  and  rapped  out  oaths  from  every 
angle  upon  their  miserable  heads. 

Certainly,  from  what  I  had  read,  no  ship  of  the  old  days 
ever  proceeded  so  sadly  and  blunderingly  to  sea.  Ere 
long,  Mr.  Mellaire  joined  Mr.  Pike  in  the  struggle  of 
directing  the  men.  It  was  not  yet  eight  in  the  evening, 
and  all  hands  were  at  work.  They  did  not  seem  to  know 
the  ropes.  Time  and  again,  when  the  half-hearted  sug 
gestions  of  the  bosuns  had  been  of  no  avail,  I  saw  one  or 
the  other  of  the  mates  leap  to  the  rail  and  put  the  right 
rope  in  the  hands  of  the  men. 

These,  on  the  deck,  I  concluded,  were  the  hopeless  ones. 
Up  aloft,  from  sounds  and  cries,  I  knew  were  other  men, 
undoubtedly  those  who  were  at  least  a  little  seaman-like, 
loosing  the  sails. 

But  on  deck!  Twenty  or  thirty  of  the  poor  devils, 
tailed  on  a  rope  that  hoisted  a  yard,  would  pull  without 
concerted  effort  and  with  painfully  slow  movements. 
"Walk  away  with  it!"  Mr.  Pike  would  yell.  And  perhaps 
for  two  or  three  yards  they  would  manage  to  walk  with  the 
rope,  ere  they  came  to  a  halt  like  stalled  horses  on  a  hill. 
And  yet,  did  either  of  the  mates  spring  in  and  add  his 

48 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  49 

strength,  they  were  able  to  move  right  along  the  deck  with 
out  stopping.  Either  of  the  mates,  old  men  that  they  were, 
was  muscularly  worth  half  a  dozen  of  the  wretched  crea 
tures. 

' '  This  is  what  sailin  's  come  to, ' '  Mr.  Pike  paused  to  snort 
in  my  ear.  * '  This  ain  't  the  place  for  an  officer  down  here, 
pulling  and  hauling.  But  what  can  you  do  when  the  bosuns 
are  worse  than  the  men  ? ' ' 

"I  thought  sailors  sang  songs  when  they  pulled/'  I 
said. 

"Sure  they  do.     Want  to  hear  'em?" 

I  knew  there  was  malice  of  some  sort  in  his  voice,  but  I 
answered  that  I'd  like  to  very  much. 

"Here,  you,  bosun!"  Mr.  Pike  snarled.  "Wake  up! 
Start  a  song!  Topsail  halyards!" 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  I  could  have  sworn  that 
Sundry  Buyers  was  pressing  his  hands  against  his  abdo 
men,  while  Nancy,  infinite  bleakness  freezing  upon  his  face, 
was  wetting  his  lips  to  begin. 

Nancy  it  was  who  began,  for  from  no  other  man,  I  was 
confident,  could  have  issued  so  sepulchral  a  plaint.  It 
was  unmusical,  unbeautiful,  unlively,  and  indescribably 
doleful.  Yet  the  words  showed  that  it  should  have  ripped 
and  crackled  with  high  spirits  and  lawlessness,  for  the 
words  poor  Nancy  sang  were: 

"Away,  way,  way,  yar, 
We'll  kill  Paddy  Doyle  for  his  boots." 

"Quit  it!  Quit  it!"  Mr.  Pike  roared.  "This  ain't  a 
funeral!  Ain't  there  one  of  you  that  can  sing?  Come 
on,  now!  It's  a  topsail  yard " 

He  broke  off  to  leap  in  to  the  pin-rail  and  get  the  wrong 
ropes  out  of  the  men's  hands  and  to  put  into  them  the 
right  rope. 

' '  Come  on,  bosun !    Break  her  out ! ' ' 


50  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Out  of  the  gloom  arose  Sundry  Buyers'  voice,  cracked 
and  crazy  and  even  more  lugubrious  than  Nancy's: 

"Then  up  aloft  that  yard  must  go, 
Whiskey  for  my  Johnny. " 

The  second  line  was  supposed  to  be  the  chorus,  but  not 
more  than  two  men  feebly  mumbled  it.  Sundry  Buyers 
quavered  the  next  line : 

"Oh,  whiskey  killed  my  sister  Sue." 

Then  Mr.  Pike  took  a  hand,  seizing  the  hauling-part  next 
to  the  pin  and  lifting  his  voice  with  a  rare  snap  and  dev- 
ilishness : 

"And  whiskey  killed  the  old  man,  too, 
Whiskey  for  my  Johnny." 

He  sang  the  devil-may-care  lines  on  and  on,  lifting  the 
crew  to  the  work  and  to  the  chorused  emphasis  of  "Whis 
key  for  my  Johnny. ' ' 

And  to  his  voice  they  pulled,  they  moved,  they  sang,  and 
were  alive,  until  he  interrupted  the  song  to  cry,  ' '  Belay ! ' ' 

And  then  all  the  life  and  lilt  went  out  of  them,  and  they 
were  again  maundering  and  futile  things,  getting  in  one 
another's  way,  stumbling  and  shuffling  through  the  dark 
ness,  hesitating  to  grasp  ropes,  and,  when  they  did  take 
hold,  invariably  taking  hold  of  the  wrong  rope  first.  Skulk 
ers  there  were  among  them,  too;  and  once,  from  for'ard 
of  the  'midship  house,  I  heard  smacks,  and  curses,  and 
groans,  and  out  of  the  darkness  hurriedly  emerged  two 
men,  on  their  heels  Mr.  Pike,  who  chanted  a  recital  of  the 
distressing  things  that  would  befall  them  if  he  caught  them 
at  such  tricks  again. 

The  whole  thing  was  too  depressing  for  me  to  care  to 
watch  further,  so  I  strolled  aft  and  climbed  the  poop.  In 


THE    MUTINY    OP    THE    ELSINORE  51 

the  lee  of  the  chart-house  Captain  West  and  the  pilot  were 
pacing  slowly  up  and  down.  Passing  on  aft,  I  saw  steer 
ing  at  the  wheel  the  weazened  little  old  man  I  had  noted 
earlier  in  the  day.  In  the  light  of  the  binnacle  his  small 
blue  eyes  looked  more  malevolent  than  ever.  So  weazened 
and  tiny  was  he,  and  so  large  was  the  brass-studded  wheel, 
that  they  seemed  of  a  height.  His  face  was  withered, 
scorched,  and  wrinkled,  and  in  all  seeming  he  was  fifty 
years  older  than  Mr.  Pike.  He  was  the  most  remarkable 
figure  of  a  burnt-out,  aged  man  one  would  expect  to  find 
able  seaman  on  one  of  the  proudest  sailing  ships  afloat. 
Later,  through  Wada,  I  was  to  learn  that  his  name  was 
Andy  Fay  and  that  he  claimed  no  more  years  than  sixty- 
three. 

I  leaned  against  the  rail  in  the  lee  of  the  wheel-house, 
and  stared  up  at  the  lofty  spars  and  myriad  ropes  that  I 
could  guess  were  there.  No,  I  decided;  I  was  not  keen  on 
the  voyage.  The  whole  atmosphere  of  it  was  wrong.  There 
were  the  cold  hours  I  had  waited  on  the  pier  ends.  There 
was  Miss  West  coming  along.  There  was  the  crew  of 
broken  men  and  lunatics.  I  wondered  if  the  wounded 
Greek  in  the  'midship  house  still  gibbered,  and  if  Mr.  Pike 
had  yet  sewed  him  up;  and  I  was  quite  sure  I  would  not 
care  to  witness  such  a  transaction  in  surgery. 

Even  Wada,  who  had  never  been  in  a  sailing  ship,  had 
his  doubts  of  the  voyage.  So  did  the  steward,  who  had 
spent  most  of  a  lifetime  in  sailing  ships.  So  far  as  Captain 
West  was  concerned,  crews  did  not  exist.  And  as  for  Miss 
West,  she  was  so  abominably  robust  that  she  could  not  be 
anything  else  than  an  optimist  in  such  matters.  She  had 
always  lived ;  her  red  blood  sang  to  her  only  that  she  would 
always  live  and  that  nothing  evil  could  ever  happen  to 
her  glorious  personality. 

Oh,  trust  me,  I  knew  the  way  of  red  blood.  Such  was 
my  condition  that  the  red-blood  health  of  Miss  West  was 


52  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

virtually  an  affront  to  me — for  I  knew  how  unthinking 
and  immoderate  such  blood  could  be.  And  for  five  months 
at  least — there  was  Mr.  Pike's  offered  wager  of  a  pound  of 
tobacco  or  a  month 's  wages  to  that  effect — I  was  to  be  pent 
on  the  same  ship  with  her.  As  sure  as  cosmic  sap  was 
cosmic  sap,  just  that  sure  was  I  that  ere  the  voyage  was 
over  I  should  be  pestered  by  her  making  love  to  me. — Please 
do  not  mistake  me.  My  certainty  in  this  matter  was  due, 
not  to  any  exalted  sense  of  my  own  desirableness  to  women, 
but  to  my  anything  but  exalted  concept  of  women  as  in 
stinctive  huntresses  of  men.  In  my  experience,  women 
hunted  men  with  quite  the  same  blind  tropism  that  marks 
the  pursuit  of  the  sun  by  the  sunflower,  the  pursuit  of  at 
tachable  surfaces  by  the  tendrils  of  the  grapevine. 

Call  me  blase — I  do  not  mind,  if  by  blase  is  meant  the 
world-weariness,  intellectual,  artistic,  sensational,  which 
can  come  to  a  young  man  of  thirty.  For  I  was  thirty,  and 
I  was  weary  of  all  these  things — weary  and  in  doubt.  It 
was  because  of  this  state  that  I  was  undertaking  the  voyage. 
I  wanted  to  get  away  by  myself,  to  get  away  from  all  these 
things,  and,  with  proper  perspective,  mull  the  matter  over. 

It  sometimes  seemed  to  me  that  the  culmination  of  this 
world-sickness  had  been  brought  about  by  the  success  of 
my  play — my  first  play,  as  every  one  knows.  But  it  had 
been  such  a  success  that  it  raised  the  doubt  in  my  own 
mind,  just  as  the  success  of  my  several  volumes  of  verse 
had  raised  doubts.  Was  the  public  right?  Were  the 
critics  right?  Surely  the  function  of  the  artist  was  to 
voice  life,  yet  what  did  I  know  of  life? 

So  you  begin  to  glimpse  what  I  mean  by  the  world- 
sickness  that  afflicted  me.  Eeally,  I  had  been,  and  was, 
very  sick.  Mad  thoughts  of  isolating  myself  entirely  from 
the  world  had  hounded  me.  I  had  even  canvassed  the  idea 
of  going  to  Molokai  and  devoting  the  rest  of  my  years  to 
the  lepers — I,  who  was  thirty  years  old,  and  healthy  and 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  53 

I 

strong,  who  had  no  particular  tragedy,  who  had  a  bigger 
income  than  I  knew  how  to  spend,  who  by  my  own  achieve 
ment  had  put  my  name  on  the  lips  of  men  and  proved 
myself  a  power  to  be  reckoned  with — I  was  that  mad  that 
I  had  considered  the  lazar  house  for  a  destiny. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  suggested  that  success  had  turned  my 
head.  Very  well.  Granted.  But  the  turned  head  remains 
a  fact,  an  incontrovertible  fact — my  sickness,  if  you  will, 
and  a  real  sickness,  and  a  fact.  This  I  knew :  I  had  reached 
an  intellectual  and  artistic  climacteric,  a  life  climacteric  of 
some  sort.  And  I  had  diagnosed  my  own  case  and  pre 
scribed  this  voyage.  And  here  was  the  atrociously  healthy 
and  profoundly  feminine  Miss  West  along — the  very  last 
ingredient  I  should  have  considered  introducing  into  my 
prescription. 

A  woman!  Women!  Heaven  knows  I  had  been  suffi 
ciently  tormented  by  their  persecutions  to  know  them.  I 
leave  it  to  you:  thirty  years  of  age,  not  entirely  unhand 
some,  an  intellectual  and  artistic  place  in  the  world,  and 
an  income  most  dazzling — why  shouldn't  women  pursue 
me?  They  would  have  pursued  me  had  I  been  a  hunch 
back,  for  the  sake  of  my  artistic  place  alone,  for  the  sake 
of  my  income  alone. 

Yes ;  and  love !  Did  I  not  know  love — lyric,  passionate, 
mad,  romantic  love?  That,  too,  was  of  old  time  with  me. 
I,  too,  had  throbbed  and  sung  and  sobbed  and  sighed — 
yes,  and  known  grief,  and  buried  my  dead.  But  it  was  so 
long  ago.  How  young  I  was — turned  twenty- four!  And 
after  that  I  had  learned  the  bitter  lesson  that  even  death 
less  grief  may  die ;  and  I  had  laughed  again  and  done  my 
share  of  philandering  with  the  pretty,  ferocious  moths 
that  fluttered  around  the  lamp  of  my  fortune  and  artistry ; 
and  after  that,  in  turn,  I  had  retired  disgusted  from  the 
lists  of  woman,  and  gone  on  long  lance-breaking  adventures 
in  the  realm  of  mind.  And  here  I  was,  on  board  the 


54  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Elsinore,  unhorsed  by  my  encounters  with  the  problems  of 
the  ultimate,  carried  off  the  field  with  a  broken  pate. 

As  I  leaned  against  the  rail,  dismissing  premonitions  of 
disaster,  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  Miss  West  below, 
bustling  and  humming  as  she  made  her  little  nest.  And 
from  her  my  thought  drifted  on  to  the  everlasting  mystery 
of  woman.  Yes,  I,  with  all  the  futuristic  contempt  for 
woman,  am  ever  caught  up  afresh  by  the  mystery  of 
woman. 

Oh,  no  illusions,  thank  you.  Woman,  the  love-seeker, 
obsessing  and  possessing,  fragile  and  fierce,  soft  and 
venomous,  prouder  than  Lucifer  and  as  prideless,  holds 
a  perpetual,  almost  morbid,  attraction  for  the  thinker. 
What  is  this  flame  of  her,  blazing  through  all  her  contra 
dictions  and  ignobilities  ? — this  ruthless  passion  for  life, 
always  for  life,  more  life  on  the  planet  ?  At  times  it  seems 
to  me  brazen,  and  awful,  and  soulless.  At  times  I  am  made 
petulant  by  it.  And  at  other  times  I  am  swayed  by  the 
sublimity  of  it.  No ;  there  is  no  escape  from  woman.  Al 
ways,  as  a  savage  returns  to  a  dark  glen  where  goblins  are 
and  gods  may  be,  so  do  I  return  to  the  contemplation  of 
woman. 

Mr.  Pike's  voice  interrupted  my  musings.  From  for'ard, 
on  the  main  deck,  I  heard  him  snarl: 

' '  On  the  maintopsail  yard,  there ! — if  you  cut  that  gasket 
I  '11  split  your  damned  skull ! ' ' 

Again  he  called,  with  a  marked  change  of  voice,  and  the 
Henry  he  called  to  I  concluded  was  the  training-ship  boy. 

"You,  Henry,  mainskysail  yard,  there!"  he  cried. 
"Don't  make  those  gaskets  up!  Fetch  'em  in  along  the 
yard  and  make  fast  to  the  tye ! ' ' 

Thus  routed  from  my  reverie,  I  decided  to  go  below  to 
bed.  Again  the  mate 's  voice  rang  out : 

"Come  on,  you  gentlemen's  sons  in  disguise !  Wake  up ! 
Lively  now!" 


CHAPTER   IX 

I  DID  not  sleep  well.  To  begin  with,  I  read  late.  Not 
till  two  in  the  morning  did  I  reach  up  and  turn  out  the 
kerosene  reading-lamp  which  Wada  had  purchased  and 
installed  for  me.  I  was  a'sleep  immediately — perfect  sleep 
being  perhaps  my  greatest  gift;  but  almost  immediately  I 
was  awake  again.  And  thereafter,  with  dozings  and  cat 
naps  and  restless  tossings  I  struggled  to  win  to  sleep,  then 
gave  it  up.  For  of  all  things,  in  my  state  of  jangled 
nerves,  to  be  afflicted  with  hives!  And  still  again,  to  be 
afflicted  with  hives  in  cold  winter  weather! 

At  four  I  lighted  up  and  went  to  reading,  forgetting  my 
irritated  skin  in  Vernon  Lee's  delightful  screed  against 
William  James  and  his  "will  to  believe."  I  was  on  the 
weather  side  of  the  ship,  and  from  overhead,  through  the 
deck,  came  the  steady  footfalls  of  some  officer  on  watch. 
I  knew  that  they  were  not  the  steps  of  Mr.  Pike,  and 
wondered  whether  they  were  Mr.  Mellaire's  or  the  pilot's. 
Somebody  above  there  was  awake.  The  work  was  going 
on,  the  vigilant  seeing  and  overseeing,  that,  I  could  plainly 
conclude,  would  go  on  through  every  hour  of  all  the  hours 
of  the  voyage. 

At  half  past  four  I  heard  the  steward's  alarm  go  off, 
instantly  suppressed,  and  five  minutes  later  I  lifted  my 
hand  to  motion  him  in  through  my  open  door.  What  I 
desired  was  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  Wada  had  been  with  me 
through  too  many  years  for  me  to  doubt  that  he  had  given 
the  steward  precise  instructions  and  turned  over  to  him 
my  coffee  and  my  coffee-making  apparatus. 

The  steward  was  a  jewel.  In  ten  minutes  he  served  me 

55 


56  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

with  a  perfect  cup  of  coffee.  I  read  on  until  daylight, 
and  half  past  eight,  breakfast  in  bed  finished,  myself 
dressed  and  shaved,  found  me  on  deck.  We  were  still  tow 
ing,  but  all  sails  were  set  to  a  light  favoring  breeze  from 
the  north.  In  the  chart-room  Captain  West  and  the  pilot 
were  smoking  cigars.  At  the  wheel  I  noted  what  I  decided 
at  once  was  an  efficient.  He  was  not  a  large  man ;  if  any 
thing  he  was  undersized.  But  his  countenance  was  broad- 
browed  and  intelligently  formed.  Tom  I  later  learned  was 
his  name,  Tom  Spink,  an  Englishman.  He  was  blue-eyed, 
fair-skinned,  well-grizzled,  and  to  the  eye  a  hale  fifty  years 
of  age.  His  reply  of  ''Good  morning,  sir,"  was  cheery, 
and  he  smiled  as  he  uttered  the  simple  phrase.  He  did  not 
look  sailor-like,  as  did  Henry,  the  training-ship  boy;  and 
yet  I  felt  at  once  that  he  was  a  sailor,  and  an  able  one. 

It  was  Mr.  Pike's  watch,  and  on  asking  him  about  Tom 
he  grudgingly  admitted  that  the  man  was  the  "best  of 
the  boiling." 

Miss  West  emerged  from  the  chart-house,  with  a  rosy 
morning  face  and  her  vital,  springy  limb-movement,  and 
immediately  began  establishing  her  contacts.  On  asking 
how  I  had  slept,  and  when  I  said  wretchedly,  she  demanded 
an  explanation.  I  told  her  of  my  affliction  of  hives  and 
showed  her  the  lumps  on  my  wrists. 

"Your  blood  needs  thinning  and  cooling,"  she  adjudged 
promptly.  "Wait  a  minute.  I'll  see  what  can  be  done 
for  you." 

And  with  that  she  was  away  and  below  and  back  in  a 
trice,  in  her  hand  a  part  glass  of  water,  into  which  she 
stirred  a  teaspoonful  of  cream  of  tartar. 

"Drink  it,"  she  ordered  as  a  matter  of  course. 

I  drank  it.  And  at  eleven  in  the  morning  she  came  up 
to  my  deck  chair  with  a  second  dose  of  the  stuff.  Also. 
she  reproached  me  roundly  for  permitting  Wada  to  f<>"' 
meat  to  Possum.  It  was  from  her  that  Wada  and  I  learned 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  57 

how  mortal  a  sin  it  was  to  give  meat  to  a  young  puppy. 
Furthermore,  she  laid  down  the  law  and  the  diet  for 
Possum,  not  alone  to  me  and  Wada,  but  to  the  steward, 
the  carpenter,  and  Mr.  Mellaire.  Of  the  latter  two,  be 
cause  they  ate  by  themselves  in  the  big  after-room  and 
because  Possum  played  there,  she  was  especially  suspi 
cious;  and  she  was  outspoken  in  voicing  her  suspicions 
to  their  faces.  The  carpenter  mumbled  embarrassed  as 
severations  in  broken  English  of  past,  present,  and  future 
innocence,  the  while  he  humbly  scraped  and  shuffled  before 
her  on  his  huge  feet.  Mr.  Mellaire 's  protestations  were  of 
the  same  nature,  save  that  they  were  made  with  the  grace 
and  suavity  of  a  Chesterfield. 

In  short,  Possum's  diet  raised  quite  a  tempest  in  the 
Elsinore  teapot,  and  by  the  time  it  was  over  Miss  "West 
had  established  this  particular  contact  with  me  and  given 
me  a  feeling  that  we  were  mutual  owners  of  the  puppy. 
I  noticed,  later  in  the  day,  that  it  was  to  Miss  West  that 
WaJa  went  for  instructions  as  to  the  quantity  of  warm 
water  he  must  use  to  dilute  Possum's  condensed  milk. 

Lunch  won  my  continued  approbation  of  the  cook.  In 
the  afternoon  I  made  a  trip  for'ard  to  the  galley  to  make 
his  acquaintance.  To  all  intents  he  was  a  Chinese,  until 
he  spoke,  whereupon,  measured  by  speech  alone,  he  was  an 
Englishman.  In  fact,  so  cultured  was  his  speech  that  I 
can  fairly  say  it  was  vested  with  an  Oxford  accent.  He, 
too,  was  old,  fully  sixty — he  acknowledged  fifty-nine.  Three 
things  about  him  were  markedly  conspicuous:  his  smile, 
that  embraced  all  of  his  clean-shaven  Asiatic  face  and 
Asiatic  eyes;  his  even-rowed,  white,  and  perfect  teeth, 
which  I  deemed  false  until  Wada  ascertained  otherwise 
for  me ;  and  his  hands  and  feet.  It  was  his  hands,  ridicu 
lously  small  and  beautifully  modeled,  that  led  my  scrutiny 
to  his  feet.  They,  too,  were  ridiculously  small  and  very 
neatly,  almost  dandifiedly,  shod. 


58  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

We  had  put  the  pilot  off  at  midday,  but  the  Britannia 
towed  us  well  into  the  afternoon  and  did  not  cast  us  off 
until  the  ocean  was  wide  about  us  and  the  land  a  faint 
blur  on  the  western  horizon.  Here,  at  the  moment  of  leav 
ing  the  tug,  we  made  our  ''departure" — that  is  to  say, 
technically  began  the  voyage,  despite  the  fact  that  we 
had  already  traveled  a  full  twenty-four  hours  away  from 
Baltimore. 

It  was  about  the  time  of  casting  off,  when  I  was  leaning 
on  the  poop-rail  gazing  for'ard,  when  Miss  West  joined 
me.  She  had  been  busy  below  all  day,  and  had  just  come 
up,  as  she  put  it,  for  a  breath  of  air.  She  surveyed  the 
sky  in  weather-wise  fashion  for  a  full  five  minutes,  then 
remarked : 

"The  barometer's  very  high— 30:60.  This  light  north 
wind  won't  last.  It  will  either  go  into  a  calm  or  work 
around  into  a  northeast  gale." 

"Which  would  you  prefer?"  I  asked. 

"The  gale,  by  all  means.  It  will  help  us  off  the  land, 
and  it  will  put  me  through  my  torment  of  seasickness  more 
quickly. — Oh,  yes,"  she  added,  "I'm  a  good  sailor,  but  I 
do  suffer  dreadfully  at  the  beginning  of  every  voyage. 
You  probably  won't  see  me  for  a  couple  of  days  now. 
That's  why  I've  been  so  busy  getting  settled  first." 

' '  Lord  Nelson,  I  have  read,  never  got  over  his  squeamish- 
ness  at  sea,"  I  said. 

"And  I've  seen  father  seasick  on  occasion,"  she  an 
swered.  "Yes,  and  some  of  the  strongest,  hardest  sailors 
I  have  ever  known." 

Mr.  Pike  here  joined  us,  for  a  moment  ceasing  from  his 
everlasting  pacing  up  and  down  to  lean  with  us  on  the 
poop-rail. 

Many  of  the  crew  were  in  evidence,  pulling  on  ropes  on 
the  main  deck  below  us.  To  my  inexperienced  eye  they 
appeared  more  unprepossessing  than  ever. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE  59 

"A  pretty  scraggly  crew,  Mr.  Pike,"  Miss  West  re 
marked. 

"The  worst  ever,"  he  growled,  "and  I've  seen  some 
pretty  bad  ones.  "We're  teachin'  them  the  ropes  just  now — 
most  of  'em." 

*  *  They  look  starved, ' '  I  commented. 

"They  are,  they  almost  always  are,"  Miss  West  an 
swered,  and  her  eyes  roved  over  them  in  the  same  apprais 
ing,  cattle-buyer's  fashion  I  had  marked  in  Mr.  Pike. 
"But  they'll  fat  up  with  regular  hours,  no  whiskey,  and 
solid  food— won't  they,  Mr.  Pike?" 

"Oh,  sure.  They  always  do.  And  you'll  see  them  liven 
up  when  we  get  'em  in  hand  .  .  .  maybe.  They're  a 
measly  lot,  though." 

I  looked  aloft  at  the  vast  towers  of  canvas.  Our  four 
masts  seemed  to  have  flowered  into  all  the  sails  possible, 
yet  the  sailors  beneath  us,  under  Mr.  Mellaire's  direction, 
were  setting  triangular  sails,  like  jibs,  between  the  masts, 
and  there  were  so  many  that  they  overlapped  one  another. 
The  slowness  and  clumsiness  with  which  the  men  handled 
these  small  sails  led  me  to  ask: 

"But  what  would  you  do,  Mr.  Pike,  with  a  green  crew 
like  this,  if  you  were  caught  right  now  in  a  storm  with  all 
this  canvas  spread?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  I  had  asked  what  he 
would  do  in  an  earthquake  with  two  rows  of  New  York 
skyscrapers  falling  on  his  head  from  both  sides  of  a  street. 

"Do?"  Miss  West  answered  for  him.  "We'd  get  the 
sail  off.  Oh,  it  can  be  done,  Mr.  Pathurst,  with  any  kind 
of  a  crew.  If  it  couldn't,  I  should  have  been  drowned 
long  ago." 

' '  Sure, ' '  Mr.  Pike  upheld  her.    ' '  So  would  I. ' ' 

'  *  The  officers  can  perform  miracles  with  the  most  worth 
less  sailors,  in  a  pinch,"  Miss  West  went  on. 

Again  Mr.  Pike  nodded  his  head  and  agreed,  and  I  noted 


60  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

his  two  big  paws,  relaxed  the  moment  before  and  drooping 
over  the  rail,  quite  unconsciously  tensed  and  folded  them 
selves  into  fists.  Also,  I  noted  fresh  abrasions  on  the 
knuckles.  Miss  West  laughed  heartily,  as  from  some  recol 
lection. 

"I  remember  one  time  when  we  sailed  from  San  Fran 
cisco  with  a  most  hopeless  crew.  It  was  in  the  Lallak 
Rookh — you  remember  her,  Mr.  Pike?" 

"Your  father's  fifth  command,"  he  nodded.  "Lost  on 
the  West  Coast  afterward — went  ashore  in  that  big  earth 
quake  and  tidal  wave.  Parted  her  anchors,  and  when  she 
hit  under  the  cliff,  the  cliff  fell  on  her." 

"That's  the  ship.  Well,  our  crew  seemed  mostly  cow 
boys  and  bricklayers,  and  tramps,  and  more  tramps  than 
anything  else.  Where  the  boarding-house  masters  got  them 
was  beyond  imagining.  A  number  of  them  were  shang 
haied,  that  was  certain.  You  should  have  seen  them  when 
they  were  first  sent  aloft."  Again  she  laughed.  "It  was 
better  than  circus  clowns.  And  scarcely  had  the  tug  cast 
us  off,  outside  the  Heads,  when  it  began  to  blow  up  and 
we  began  to  shorten  down.  And  then  our  mates  performed 
miracles.  You  remember  Mr.  Harding? — Silas  Harding?" 

'  *  Don 't  I  though ! ' '  Mr.  Pike  proclaimed  enthusiastically. 
"He  was  some  man,  and  he  must  have  been  an  old  man 
even  then." 

"He  was,  and  a  terrible  man,"  she  concurred,  and  added, 
almost  reverently :  ' '  And  a  wonderful  man. ' '  She  turned 
her  face  to  me.  "He  was  our  mate.  The  men  were  sea 
sick  and  miserable  and  green.  But  Mr.  Harding  got  the 
sail  off  the  Lallak  Rookh  just  the  same.  What  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  was  this: 

"I  was  on  the  poop,  just  like  I  am  now,  and  Mr.  Hard 
ing  had  a  lot  of  those  miserable  sick  men  putting  gaskets 
on  the  main-lower-topsail. — How  far  would  that  be  above 
the  deck,  Mr.  Pike?" 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  61 


1 1 


:Let  me  see  .  .  .  the  Lallah  Rookh."  Mr.  Pike  paused 
to  consider.  ' '  Oh,  say  around  a  hundred  f  eet , ' ' 

' '  I  saw  it  myself.  One  of  the  green  hands,  a  tramp,  and 
he  must  already  have  got  a  taste  of  Mr.  Harding,  fell  off 
the  lower-topsail-yard.  I  was  only  a  little  girl,  but  it  looked 
like  certain  death,  for  he  was  falling  from  the  weather  side 
of  the  yard  straight  down  on  deck.  But  he  fell  into  the 
belly  of  the  mainsail,  breaking  his  fall,  turned  a  somer 
sault,  and  landed  on  his  feet  on  deck  and  unhurt.  And 
he  landed  right  alongside  of  Mr.  Harding,  facing  him.  I 
don't  know  which  was  the  more  astonished,  but  I  think 
Mr.  Harding  was,  for  he  stood  there  petrified.  He  had 
expected  the  man  to  be  killed.  Not  so  the  man.  He  took 
one  look  at  Mr.  Harding,  then  made  a  wild  jump  for  the 
rigging  and  climbed  right  back  up  to  that  topsail-yard." 

Miss  West  and  the  mate  laughed  so  heartily  that  they 
scarcely  heard  me  say: 

"Astonishing!  Think  of  the  jar  to  the  man's  nerves, 
falling  to  apparent  death  that  way." 

"He'd  been  jarred  harder  by  Silas  Harding,  I  guess," 
was  Mr.  Pike's  remark,  with  another  burst  of  laughter,  in 
which  Miss  West  joined. 

Which  was  all  very  well  in  a  way.  Ships  were  ships, 
and  judging  by  what  I  had  seen  of  our  present  crew,  harsh 
treatment  was  necessary.  But  that  a  young  woman  of  the 
niceness  of  Miss  West  should  know  of  such  things  and  be 
so  saturated  in  this  side  of  ship  life  was  not  nice.  It  was 
not  nice  for  me,  though  it  interested  me,  I  confess,  and 
strengthened  my  grip  on  reality.  Yet  it  meant  a  harden 
ing  of  one 's  fibers,  and  I  did  not  like  to  think  of  Miss  West 
being  so  hardened. 

I  looked  at  her  and  could  not  help  marking  again  the 
fineness  and  firmness  of  her  skin.  Her  hair  was  dark,  as 
were  her  eyebrows,  which  were  almost  straight  and  rather 
low  over  her  long  eyes.  Gray  her  eyes  were,  a  warm  gray, 


62  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

and  very  steady  and  direct  in  expression,  intelligent  and 
alive.  Perhaps,  taking  her  face  as  a  whole,  the  most  note 
worthy  expression  of  it  was  a  great  calm.  She  seemed 
always  in  repose,  at  peace  with  herself  and  with  the  ex 
ternal  world.  The  most  beautiful  feature  was  her  eyes, 
framed  in  lashes  as  dark  as  her  brows  and  hair.  The  most 
admirable  feature  was  her  nose,  very  straight,  and  just 
the  slightest  trifle  too  long.  In  this  it  was  reminiscent  of 
her  father's  nose.  But  the  perfect  modeling  of  the  bridge 
and  nostrils  conveyed  an  indescribable  advertisement  of 
race  and  blood. 

Hers  was  a  slender-lipped,  sensitive,  sensible,  and  gener 
ous  mouth — generous,  not  so  much  in  size,  which  was  quite 
average,  but  generous  rather  in  tolerance,  in  power,  and 
in  laughter.  All  the  health  and  buoyancy  of  her  was  in 
her  mouth,  as  well  as  in  her  eyes.  She  rarely  exposed  her 
teeth  in  smiling,  for  which  purpose  she  seemed  chiefly  to 
employ  her  eyes;  but  when  she  laughed  she  showed  strong 
white  teeth,  even,  not  babyish  in  their  smallness,  but  just 
the  firm,  sensible,  normal  size  one  would  expect  in  a  woman 
as  healthy  and  normal  as  she. 

I  would  never  have  called  her  beautiful,  and  yet  she 
possessed  many  of  the  factors  that  go  to  compose  feminine 
beauty.  She  had  all  the  beauty  of  coloring,  a  white  skin 
that  was  healthy  white  and  that  was  emphasized  by  the 
darkness  of  her  lashes,  brows,  and  hair.  And,  in  the  same 
way,  the  darkness  of  lashes  and  brows  and  the  whiteness 
of  skin  set  off  the  warm  gray  of  her  eyes.  The  forehead 
was,  well,  medium  broad  and  medium  high,  and  quite 
smooth.  No  lines  nor  hints  of  lines  were  there,  suggestive 
of  nervousness,  of  blue  days  of  depression  and  white  nights 
of  insomnia.  Oh,  she  bore  all  the  marks  of  the  healthy, 
human  female,  who  never  worried  nor  was  vexed  in  the 
spirit  of  her,  and  in  whose  body  every  process  and  function 
were  frictionless  and  automatic. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  63 

1 '  Miss  West  has  posed  to  me  as  quite  a  weather  prophet, ' ' 
I  said  to  the  mate.  "Now  what  is  your  forecast  of  our 
coming  weather?" 

"She  ought  to  be,"  was  Mr.  Pike's  reply  as  he  lifted 
his  glance  across  the  smooth  swell  of  sea  to  the  sky.  * '  This 
ain't  the  first  time  she's  been  on  the  North  Atlantic  in 
winter. ' '  He  debated  a  moment,  as  he  studied  the  sea  and 
sky.  "I  should  say,  considering  the  high  barometer,  we 
ought  to  get  a  mild  gale  from  the  northeast  or  a  calm, 
with  the  chances  in  favor  of  the  calm." 

She  favored  me  with  a  triumphant  smile,  and  suddenly 
clutched  the  rail  as  the  Elsinore  lifted  on  an  unusually 
large  swell  and  sank  into  the  trough  with  a  roll  from 
windward  that  flapped  all  the  sails  in  hollow  thunder. 

"The  calm  has  it,"  Miss  West  said,  with  just  a  hint  of 
grimness.  "And  if  this  keeps  up  I'll  be  in  my  bunk  in 
about  five  minutes." 

She  wraved  aside  all  sympathy.  "Oh,  don't  bother  about 
me,  Mr.  Pathurst.  Seasickness  is  only  detestable  and  hor 
rid,  like  sleet,  and  muddy  weather,  and  poison  ivy;  be 
sides,  I'd  rather  be  seasick  than  have  the  hives." 

Something  went  wrong  with  the  men  below  us  on  the 
deck,  some  stupidity  or  blunder  that  was  made  aware  to 
us  by  Mr.  Mellaire's  raised  voice.  Like  Mr.  Pike,  he  had 
a  way  of  snarling  at  the  sailors  that  was  distinctly  un 
pleasant  to  the  ear. 

On  the  faces  of  several  of  the  sailors  bruises  were  in 
evidence.  One,  in  particular,  had  an  eye  so  swollen  that 
it  was  closed. 

"Looks  as  if  he  had  run  against  a  stanchion  in  the 
dark,"  I  observed. 

Most  eloquent,  and  most  unconscious,  was  the  quick  flash 
of  Miss  West's  eyes  to  Mr.  Pike's  big  paws,  with  freshly 
abraded  knuckles,  resting  on  the  rail.  It  was  a  stab  of 
hurt  to  me.  She  knew. 


CHAPTER   X 

THAT  evening,  the  three  men  of  us  had  dinner  alone, 
with  racks  on  the  table,  while  the  Elsinore  rolled  in  the 
calm  that  had  sent  Miss  West  to  her  room. 

"You  won't  see  her  for  a  couple  of  days,"  Captain  "West 
told  me.  "Her  mother  was  the  same  way — a  born  sailor, 
but  always  sick  at  the  outset  of  a  voyage." 

"It's  the  shaking  down."  Mr.  Pike  astonished  me  with 
the  longest  observation  I  had  yet  heard  him  utter  at  table. 
"Everybody  has  to  shake  down  when  they  leave  the  land. 
We've  got  to  forget  the  good  times  on  shore,  and  the  good 
things  money '11  buy,  and  start  watch  and  watch,  four 
hours  on  deck  and  four  below.  And  it  comes  hard,  and 
all  our  tempers  are  strung  until  we  can  make  the  change. 
Did  it  happen  that  you  heard  Caruso  and  Blanche  Arral 
this  winter  in  New  York,  Mr.  Pathurst?" 

I  nodded,  still  marveling  over  this  spate  of  speech  at 
table. 

"Well,  think  of  hearing  them,  and  Homer,  and  Wither- 
spoon,  and  Amato,  every  night  for  nights  and  nights  at 
the  Metropolitan ;  and  then  to  give  it  the  go-by,  and  get  to 
sea  and  shake  down  to  watch  and  watch. ' ' 

"You  don't  like  the  sea?"  I  queried. 

He  sighed. 

"I  don't  know.    But  of  course  the  sea  is  all  I  know " 

"Except  music,"  I  threw  in. 

"Yes,  but  the  sea  and  all  the  long- voyaging  has  cheated 
me  out  of  most  of  the  music  I  oughta  have  had  coming 
to  me." 

' '  I  suppose  you  've  heard  Schumann-Heink  ? ' ' 

64 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  65 

"Wonderful,  wonderful,"  he  murmured  fervently,  then 
regarded  me  with  an  eager  wistfulness.  "I've  half  a 
dozen  of  her  records,  and  I've  got  the  second  dog-watch 
below.  If  Captain  West  don't  mind.  ..."  (Captain 
West  nodded  that  he  didn't  mind.)  "And  if  you'd  want 
to  hear  them?  The  machine  is  a  good  one." 

And  then,  to  my  amazement,  when  the  steward  had 
cleared  the  table,  this  hoary  old  relic  of  man-killing  and 
man-driving  days,  battered  waif  of  the  sea  that  he  was, 
carried  in  from  his  room  a  most  splendid  collection  of 
phonograph  records.  These,  and  the  machine,  he  placed 
on  the  table.  The  big  doors  were  opened,  making  the 
dining-room  and  the  main  cabin  into  one  large  room.  It 
was  in  the  cabin  that  Captain  West  and  I  lolled  in  big 
leather  chairs  while  Mr.  Pike  ran  the  phonograph.  His 
face  was  in  a  blaze  of  light  from  the  swinging  lamps,  and 
every  shade  of  expression  was  visible  to  me. 

In  vain  I  waited  for  him  to  start  some  popular  song. 
His  records  were  only  of  the  best,  and  the  care  he  took  of 
them  was  a  revelation.  He  handled  each  one  reverently, 
as  a  sacred  thing,  untying  and  unwrapping  it  and  brush 
ing  it  with  a  fine  camel's  hair  brush  while  it  revolved  and 
ere  he  placed  the  needle  on  it.  For  a  time,  all  I  could  see 
was  the  huge  brute  hands  of  a  brute-driver,  with  skin  off 
the  knuckles,  that  expressed  love  in  their  every  movement. 
Each  touch  on  the  discs  was  a  caress,  and  while  the  record 
played  he  hovered  over  it  and  dreamed  in  some  heaven  of 
music  all  his  own. 

During  this  time  Captain  West  lay  back  and  smoked  a 
cigar.  His  face  was  expressionless,  and  lie  seemed  very 
far  away,  untouched  by  the  music.  I  almost  doubted  that 
he  heard  it.  He  made  no  remarks  between  whiles,  betrayed 
no  sign  of  approbation  or  displeasure.  He  seemed  pre- 
ternaturally  serene,  preternaturally  remote.  And  while  I 
watched  him  I  wondered  what  his  duties  were.  I  had  not 


66  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

seen  him  perform  any.  Mr.  Pike  had  attended  to  the  load 
ing  of  the  ship.  Not  until  she  was  ready  for  sea  had 
Captain  West  come  on  board.  I  had  not  seen  him  give  an 
order.  It  looked  to  me  that  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire 
did  the  work.  All  Captain  West  did  was  to  smoke  cigars 
and  keep  blissfully  oblivious  of  the  Elsinore's  crew. 

When  Mr.  Pike  had  played  the  "Hallelujah  Chorus" 
from  the  Messiah,  and  "He  Shall  Feed  His  Flock,"  he 
mentioned  to  me,  almost  apologetically,  that  he  liked  sacred 
music,  and  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  for  a  short  period, 
a  child  ashore  in  San  Francisco,  he  had  been  a  choir  boy. 

"And  then  I  hit  the  dominie  over  the  head  with  a  base 
ball  bat  and  sneaked  off  to  sea  again,"  he  concluded  with 
a  harsh  laugh. 

And  thereat  he  fell  to  dreaming  while  he  played  "The 
Gloria,"  Meyerbeer's  "King  of  Heaven,"  and  Mendels 
sohn's  "0  Kest  in  the  Lord." 

When  one  bell  struck,  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  he  carried 
his  music,  all  carefully  wrapped,  back  into  his  room.  I 
lingered  with  him  while  he  rolled  a  cigarette  ere  eight  bells 
struck. 

"  I  've  got  a  lot  more  good  things, ' '  he  said  confidentially ; 
"Coenen's  'Come  Unto  Me,'  and  Faure's  ' Crucifix,'  and 
there's  '0  Salutaris,'  and  'Lead  Kindly  Light'  by  the 
Trinity  Choir,  and  'Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul'  would  just 
melt  your  heart.  I'll  play  'em  for  you  some  night." 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  I  was  led  to  ask  by  his  rapt 
expression  and  by  the  picture  of  his  brute-driving  hands 
which  I  could  not  shake  from  my  consciousness. 

He  hesitated  perceptibly,  then  replied: 

"I  do  .      .  when  I'm  listening  to  them." 


My  sleep  that  night  was  wretched.    Short  of  sleep  from 
the  previous  night,  I  closed  my  book  and  turned  my  light 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  67 

off  early.  But  scarcely  had  I  dropped  into  slumber  when 
I  was  aroused  by  the  recrudescence  of  my  hives.  All  day 
they  had  not  bothered  me;  yet  the  instant  I  put  out  the 
light  and  slept,  the  damnable  persistent  itching  set  up. 
Wada  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed,  and  from  him  I  got  more 
cream  of  tartar.  It  was  useless,  however,  and  at  midnight, 
when  I  heard  the  watch  changing,  I  partially  dressed, 
slipped  into  my  dressing  gown,  and  went  up  on  the  poop. 

I  saw  Mr.  Mellaire  beginning  his  four  hours'  watch, 
pacing  up  and  down  the  port  side  of  the  poop;  and  I 
slipped  away  aft,  past  the  man  at  the  wheel,  whom  I  did 
not  recognize,  and  took  refuge  in  the  lee  of  the  wheel- 
house. 

Once  again  I  studied  the  dim  loom  and  tracery  of  intri 
cate  rigging  and  lofty,  sail-carrying  spars,  thought  of  the 
mad,  imbecile  crew,  and  experienced  premonitions  of  dis 
aster.  How  could  such  a  voyage  be  possible,  with  such  a 
crew,  on  the  huge  Elsinore,  a  cargo-carrier  that  was  only 
a  steel  shell  half  an  inch  thick  burdened  with  five  thou 
sand  tons  of  coal?  It  was  appalling  to  contemplate.  The 
voyage  had  gone  wrong  from  the  first.  In  the  wretched 
unbalance  that  loss  of  sleep  brings  to  any  good  sleeper,  I 
could  decide  only  that  the  voyage  was  doomed.  Yet  how 
doomed  it  was,  in  truth,  neither  I  nor  a  madman  could 
have  dreamed. 

I  thought  of  the  red-blooded  Miss  West  who  had  always 
lived  and  had  no  doubts  but  what  she  would  always  live. 
I  thought  of  the  killing  and  driving  and  music-loving  Mr. 
Pike.  Many  a  haler  remnant  than  he  had  gone  down  on 
a  last  voyage.  As  for  Captain  West,  he  did  not  count. 
He  was  too  neutral  a  being,  too  far  away,  a  sort  of  favored 
passenger  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  serenely  and  passively 
exist  in  some  Nirvana  of  his  own  creating. 

Next  I  remembered  the  self-wounded  Greek,  sewed  up 
by  Mr.  Pike  and  lying  gibbering  between  the  steel  walls 


68  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

of  the  'midship  house.  This  picture  almost  decided  me, 
for  in  my  fevered  imagination  he  typified  the  whole  mad, 
helpless,  idiotic  crew.  Certainly  I  could  go  back  to  Balti 
more.  Thank  God,  I  had  the  money  to  humor  my  whims. 
Had  not  Mr.  Pike  told  me,  in  reply  to  a  question,  that  he 
estimated  the  running  expense  of  the  Elsinore  at  two  hun 
dred  dollars  a  day?  I  could  afford  to  pay  two  hundred  a 
day,  or  two  thousand,  for  the  several  days  that  might  be 
necessary  to  get  me  back  to  the  land,  to  a  pilot  tug,  or  any 
inbound  craft  to  Baltimore. 

I  was  quite  wholly  of  a  mind  to  go  down  and  rout  out 
Captain  West  to  tell  him  my  decision,  when  another  ques 
tion  presented  itself:  Then  are  you,  the  thinker  and  phil 
osopher,  the  world-sick  one,  afraid  to  go  down,  to  cease  in 
the  darkness f  Bah!  My  own  pride  in  my  life-prideless- 
ness  saved  Captain  West's  sleep  from  interruption.  Of 
course  I  would  go  on  with  the  adventure,  if  adventure  it 
might  be  called  to  go  sailing  around  Cape  Horn  with  a 
shipload  of  fools  and  lunatics — and  worse;  for  I  remem 
bered  the  three  Babylonish  and  Semitic  ones  who  had 
aroused  Mr.  Pike's  ire  and  who  had  laughed  so  terribly 
and  silently. 

Night  thoughts!  Sleepless  thoughts!  I  dismissed  them 
all  and  started  below,  chilled  through  by  the  cold.  But 
at  the  chart-room  door  I  encountered  Mr.  Mellaire. 

"A  pleasant  evening,  sir,"  he  greeted  me.  "A  pity 
there's  not  a  little  wind  to  help  us  off  the  land." 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  crew?"  I  asked,  after  a 
moment  or  so. 

Mr.  Mellaire  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I've  seen  many  queer  crews  in  my  time,  Mr.  Pathurst, 
but  I  never  saw  one  as  queer  as  this — boys,  old  men, 
cripples,  and — you  saw  Tony  the  Greek  go  overboard  yes 
terday?  Well,  that's  only  the  beginning.  He's  a  sample. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  69 

I  've  got  a  big  Irishman  in  my  watch  who 's  going  bad.  Did 
you  notice  a  little,  dried-up  Scotchman  ?" 

"Who  looks  mean  and  angry  all  the  time,  and  who  was 
steering  the  evening  before  last  ? ' ' 

"The  very  one — Andy  Fay.  Well,  Andy  Fay's  just 
been  complaining  to  me  about  0 'Sullivan.  Says  0 'Sulli 
van  's  threatened  his  life.  "When  Andy  Fay  went  off  watch 
at  eight  he  found  0 'Sullivan  stropping  a  razor.  I'll  give 
you  the  conversation  as  Andy  gave  it  to  me : 

"  'Says  0 'Sullivan  to  me,  "Mr.  Fay,  I'll  have  a  word 
wid  yeh?"  "Certainly,"  says  I;  "what  can  I  do  for 
you?"  "Sell  me  your  sea-boots,  Mr.  Fay,"  says  0 'Sulli 
van,  polite  as  can  be.  "But  what  will  you  be  wantin'  of 
them?"  says  I.  "'Twill  be  a  great  favor,"  says  0 'Sulli 
van.  "But  it's  my  only  pair,"  says  I;  "and  you  have  a 
pair  of  your  own,"  says  I.  "Mr.  Fay,  I'll  be  needin'  me 
own  in  bad  weather,"  says  0 'Sullivan.  "Besides,"  says 
I,  "you  have  no  money."  "I'll  pay  for  them  when  we 
pay  off  in  Seattle, ' '  says  0 'Sullivan.  " I'll  not  do  it, ' '  says 
I;  "besides,  you're  not  tellin'  me  what  you'll  be  doin' 
with  them."  "But  I  will  tell  yeh,"  says  0 'Sullivan; 
"I'm  wantin'  to  throw  'em  over  the  side."  And  with 
that  I  turns  to  walk  away,  but  O  'Sullivan  says,  very  polite 
and  seducin '-like,  still  a-stroppin'  the  razor,  "Mr.  Fay," 
says  he,  "will  you  kindly  step  this  way  an'  have  your 
throat  cut?"  And  with  that  I  knew  my  life  was  in  dan 
ger,  and  I  have  come  to  make  report  to  you,  sir,  that  the 
man  is  a  violent  lunatic. '  ' 

"Or  soon  will  be,"  I  remarked.  "I  noticed  him  yes 
terday,  a  big  man  muttering  continually  to  himself?" 

'  That's  the  man,"  Mr.  Mellaire  said. 

•'Do  you  have  many  such  at  sea?"  I  asked. 

"More  than  my  share,  I  do  believe,  sir." 

He  was  lighting  a  cigarette  at  the  moment,  and  with  a 


70  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

quick  movement  he  pulled  off  his  cap,  bent  his  head  for 
ward,  and  held  up  the  blazing  match  that  I  might  see. 

I  saw  a  grizzled  head,  the  full  crown  of  which  was  not 
entirely  bald,  but  partially  covered  with  a  few  sparse  long 
hairs.  And  full  across  this  crown,  disappearing  in  the 
thicker  fringe  above  the  ears,  ran  the  most  prodigious  scar 
I  had  ever  seen.  Because  the  vision  of  it  was  so  fleeting 
ere  the  match  blew  out,  and  because  of  the  scar's  very 
prodigiousness,  I  may  possibly  exaggerate,  but  I  could 
have  sworn  that  I  could  lay  two  fingers  deep  into  the 
horrid  cleft  and  that  it  was  fully  two  fingers  broad.  There 
seemed  no  bone  at  all,  just  a  great  fissure,  a  deep  valley 
covered  with  skin;  and  I  was  confident  that  the  brain 
pulsed  immediately  under  that  skin. 

He  pulled  his  cap  on  and  laughed  in  an  amused,  re 
assuring  way. 

"A  crazy  sea  cook  did  that,  Mr.  Pathurst,  with  a  meat- 
axe.  We  were  thousands  of  miles  from  anywhere,  in  the 
South  Indian  Ocean  at  the  time,  running  our  Easting 
down,  but  the  cook  got  the  idea  into  his  addled  head  that 
we  were  lying  in  Boston  Harbor  and  that  I  wouldn't  let 
him  go  ashore.  I  had  my  back  to  him  at  the  time,  and 
I  never  knew  what  struck  me." 

1 '  But  how  could  you  recover  from  so  fearful  an  injury  ? ' ' 
I  questioned.  "There  must  have  been  a  splendid  surgeon 
on  board,  and  you  must  have  had  wonderful  vitality." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  must  have  been  the  vitality  .  .  .  and  the  molasses." 

"Molasses!" 

"Yes;  the  captain  had  old-fashioned  prejudices  against 
antiseptics.  He  always  used  molasses  for  fresh  wound- 
dressings.  I  lay  in  my  bunk  many  weary  weeks — we  had 
a  long  passage — and  by  the  time  we  reached  Hong  Kong 
the  thing  was  healed,  there  was  no  need  for  a  shore  sur- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  71 

geon,  and  I  was  standing  my  third  mate's  watch — we 
carried  third  mates  in  those  days. " 

Not  for  many  a  long  day  was  I  to  realize  the  dire  part 
that  scar  in  Mr.  Mellaire's  head  was  to  play  in  his  destiny 
and  in  the  destiny  of  the  Elsinore.  Had  I  known  at  the 
time,  Captain  West  would  have  received  the  most  unusual 
wakening  from  sleep  that  he  ever  experienced ;  for  he  would 
have  been  routed  out  by  a  very  determined,  partially 
dressed  passenger  with  a  proposition  capable  of  going  to 
the  extent  of  buying  the  Elsinore  outright  with  all  her 
cargo  so  that  she  might  be  sailed  straight  back  to  Balti 
more. 

As  it  was,  I  merely  thought  it  a  very  marvelous  thing 
that  Mr.  Mellaire  should  have  lived  so  many  years  with 
such  a  hole  in  his  head. 

We  talked  on,  and  he  gave  me  many  details  of  that  par 
ticular  happening,  and  of  other  happenings  at  sea  on  the 
part  of  the  lunatics  that  seem  to  infest  the  sea. 

And  yet  I  could  not  like  the  man.  In  nothing  he  said, 
nor  in  the  manner  of  saying  tilings,  could  I  find  fault.  He 
seemed  generous,  broad-minded,  and,  for  a  sailor,  very 
much  of  a  man  of  the  world.  It  was  easy  for  me  to  over 
look  his  excessive  suavity  of  speech  and  supercourtesy  of 
social  mannerism.  It  was  not  that.  But  all  the  time  I 
was  distressingly,  and,  I  suppose,  intuitively  aware,  though 
in  the  darkness  I  could  not  even  see  his  eyes,  that  there, 
behind  those  eyes,  inside  that  skull,  was  ambuscaded  an 
alien  personality  that  spied  upon  me,  measured  me,  studied 
me,  and  that  said  one  thing  while  it  thought  another  thing. 

WTien  I  said  good  night  and  went  below,  it  was  with 
the  feeling  that  I  had  been  talking  with  the  one  half  of 
some  sort  of  a  dual  creature.  The  other  half  had  not 
spoken.  Yet  I  sensed  it  there,  fluttering  and  quick,  behind 
the  mask  of  words  and  flesh. 


CHAPTER   XI 

BUT  I  could  not  sleep.  I  took  more  cream  of  tartar.  It 
must  be  the  heat  of  the  bedclothes,  I  decided,  that  excited 
my  hives.  And  yet,  whenever  I  ceased  struggling  for 
sleep,  and  lighted  the  lamp  and  read,  my  skin  irritation 
decreased.  But  as  soon  as  I  turned  out  the  lamp  and  closed 
my  eyes  I  was  troubled  again.  So  hour  after  hour  passed, 
through  which,  between  vain  attempts  to  sleep,  I  managed 
to  wade  through  many  pages  of  Rosny's  "Le  Termite" — 
a  not  very  cheerful  proceeding,  I  must  say,  concerned  as 
it  is  with  the  microscopic  and  over-elaborate  recital  of 
Noel  Servaise's  tortured  nerves,  bodily  pains,  and  intellec 
tual  phantasms.  At  last  I  tossed  the  novel  aside,  damned 
all  analytical  Frenchmen,  and  found  some  measure  of  re 
lief  in  the  more  genial  and  cynical  Stendhal. 

Over  my  head  I  could  hear  Mr.  Mellaire  steadily  pace 
up  and  down.  At  four,  the  watches  changed,  and  I  recog 
nized  the  age-lag  in  Mr.  Pike's  promenade.  Half  an  hour 
later,  just  as  the  steward's  alarm  went  off,  instantly 
checked  by  that  light-sleeping  Asiatic,  the  Elsinore  began 
to  heel  over  on  my  side.  I  could  hear  Mr.  Pike  barking 
and  snarling  orders,  and  at  times  a  trample  and  shuffle 
of  many  feet  passed  over  my  head  as  the  weird  crew  pulled 
and  hauled.  The  Elsinore  continued  to  heel  over  until  I 
could  see  the  water  against  my  port,  and  then  she  gathered 
way  and  dashed  ahead  at  such  a  rate  that  I  could  hear  the 
stinging  and  singing  of  the  foam  through  the  circle  of 
thick  glass  beside  me. 

The  steward  brought  me  coffee,  and  I  read  till  daylight 
and  after,  when  Wada  served  me  breakfast  and  helped  me 

72 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  73 

dress.  He,  too,  complained  of  inability  to  sleep.  He  had 
been  bunked  with  Nancy  in  one  of  the  rooms  in  the  'mid 
ship  house.  Wada  described  the  situation.  The  tiny  room, 
made  of  steel,  was  air-tight  when  the  steel  door  was  closed. 
And  Nancy  insisted  on  keeping  the  door  closed.  As  a  re 
sult,  Wada,  in  the  upper  bunk,  had  stifled.  He  told  me 
that  the  air  had  got  so  bad  that  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  no 
matter  how  high  it  was  turned,  guttered  down  and  all  but 
refused  to  burn.  Nancy  snored  beautifully  through  it  all, 
while  he  had  been  unable  to  close  his  eyes. 

"He  is  not  clean,"  quoth  Wada.  "He  is  a  pig.  No 
more  will  I  sleep  in  that  place. " 

On  the  poop  I  found  the  Elsinore,  with  many  of  her 
sails  furled,  slashing  along  through  a  troubled  sea  under 
an  overcast  sky.  Also,  I  found  Mr.  Mellaire,  marching  up 
and  down,  just  as  I  had  left  him  hours  before,  and  it  took 
quite  a  distinct  effort  for  me  to  realize  that  he  had  had 
the  watch  off  between  four  and  eight.  Even  then,  he  told 
me,  he  had  slept  from  four  until  half  past  seven. 

"That  is  one  thing,  Mr.  Pathurst,  I  always  sleep  like  a 
baby  .  .  .  which  means  a  good  conscience,  sir,  yes,  a  good 
conscience. ' ' 

And  while  he  enunciated  the  platitude  I  was  uncomfort 
ably  aware  that  that  alien  thing  inside  his  skull  was  watch 
ing  me,  studying  me. 

In  the  cabin,  Captain  West  smoked  a  cigar  and  read  the 
Bible.  Miss  West  did  not  appear,  and  I  was  grateful  that 
to  my  sleeplessness  the  curse  of  seasickness  had  not  been 
added. 

Without  asking  permission  of  anybody,  Wada  arranged 
a  sleeping  place  for  himself  in  a  far  corner  of  the  big 
after-room,  screening  the  corner  with  a  solidly  lashed  wall 
of  my  trunks  and  empty  book  boxes. 

It  was  a  deary  enough  day,  no  sun,  with  occasional 
splatters  of  rain  and  a  persistent  crash  of  seas  over  the 


74  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

weather  rail  and  swash  of  water  across  the  deck.  With 
my  eyes  glued  to  the  cabin  ports  which  gave  for'ard  along 
the  main  deck,  I  could  see  the  wretched  sailors,  whenever 
they  were  given  some  task  of  pull  and  haul,  wet  through 
and  through  by  the  boarding  seas.  Several  times  I  saw 
some  of  them  taken  off  their  feet  and  rolled  about  in  the 
creaming  foam.  And  yet,  erect,  unstaggering,  with  certi 
tude  of  weight  and  strength,  among  these  rolled  men,  these 
clutching,  cowering  ones,  moved  either  Mr.  Pike  or  Mr. 
Mellaire.  They  were  never  taken  off  their  feet.  They 
never  shrank  away  from  a  splash  of  spray  or  heavier  bulk 
of  down-falling  water.  They  had  fed  on  different  food, 
were  informed  with  a  different  spirit,  were  of  iron  in  con 
trast  with  the  poor  miser ables  they  drove  to  their  bidding. 

In  the  afternoon  I  dozed  for  half  an  hour  in  one  of  the 
big  chairs  in  the  cabin.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  violent 
motion  of  the  ship  I  could  have  slept  there  for  hours,  for 
the  hives  did  not  trouble.  Captain  West,  stretched  out  on 
the  cabin  sofa,  his  feet  in  carpet  slippers,  slept  enviably. 
By  some  instinct,  I  might  say,  in  the  deep  of  sleep,  he 
kept  his  place  and  was  not  rolled  off  upon  the  floor.  Also, 
he  lightly  held  a  half-smoked  cigar  in  one  hand.  I  watched 
him  for  an  hour,  and  knew  him  to  be  asleep,  and  marveled 
that  he  maintained  his  easy  posture  and  did  not  drop  the 
cigar. 

After  dinner  there  was  no  phonograph.  The  second 
dog-watch  was  Mr.  Pike's  on  deck.  Besides,  as  he  ex 
plained,  the  rolling  was  too  severe.  It  would  make  the 
needle  jump  and  scratch  his  beloved  records. 


And  no  sleep!  Another  weary  night  of  torment,  and 
another  dreary,  overcast  day  and  leaden,  troubled  sea. 
And  no  Miss  West.  Wada,  too,  is  seasick,  although  hero 
ically  he  kept  his  feet  and  tried  to  tend  on  me  with  glassy 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE          75 

unseeing  eyes.  I  sent  him  to  his  bunk,  and  read  through 
the  endless  hours  until  my  eyes  were  tired,  and  my  brain, 
between  lack  of  sleep  and  over-use,  was  fuzzy. 

Captain  West  is  no  conversationalist.  The  more  I  see 
of  him  the  more  I  am  baffled.  I  have  not  yet  found  a 
reason  for  that  first  impression  I  received  of  him.  He  has 
all  the  poise  and  air  of  a  remote  and  superior  being,  and 
yet  I  wonder  if  it  be  not  poise  and  air  and  nothing  else. 
Just  as  I  had  expected,  that  first  meeting,  ere  he  spoke  a 
word,  to  hear  fall  from  his  lips  words  of  untold  beneficence 
and  wisdom,  and  then  heard  him  utter  mere  social  com 
monplaces,  so  I  now  find  myself  almost  forced  to  conclude 
that  his  touch  of  race,  and  beak  of  power,  and  all  the  tall, 
aristocratic  slenderness  of  him  have  nothing  behind  them. 

And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  I  can  find  no  reason  for  re 
jecting  that  first  impression.  He  has  not  shown  any 
strength,  but  by  the  same  token  he  has  not  shown  any 
weakness.  Sometimes  I  wonder  what  resides  behind  those 
clear  blue  eyes.  Certainly  I  have  failed  to  find  any  intel 
lectual  backing.  I  tried  him  out  with  William  James' 
"  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience. "  He  glanced  at  a 
few  pages,  then  returned  it  to  me  with  the  frank  state 
ment  that  it  did  not  interest  him.  He  has  no  books  of  his 
own.  Evidently  he  is  not  a  reader.  Then  what  is  he?  I 
dared  to  feel  him  out  on  politics.  He  listened  courteously, 
said  sometimes  yes  and  sometimes  no,  and,  when  I  ceased 
from  very  discouragement,  said  nothing. 

Aloof  as  the  two  officers  are  from  the  men,  Captain 
West  is  still  more  aloof  from  his  officers.  I  have  not  seen 
him  address  a  further  word  to  Mr.  Mellaire  than  "Good 
morning "  on  the  poop.  As  for  Mr.  Pike,  who  eats  three 
times  a  day  with  him,  scarcely  any  more  conversation 
obtains  between  them.  And  I  am  surprised  by  what  seems 
the  very  conspicuous  awe  with  which  Mr.  Pike  seems  to 
regard  his  commander. 


76  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Another  thing.  What  are  Captain  West's  duties?  So 
far,  he  has  done  nothing,  save  eat  three  times  a  day,  smoke 
many  cigars,  and  each  day  stroll  a  total  of  one  mile  around 
the  poop.  The  mates  do  all  the  work,  and  hard  work  it  is, 
four  hours  on  deck  and  four  below,  day  and  night,  with 
never  a  variation.  I  watch  Captain  West  and  am  amazed. 
He  will  loll  back  in  the  cabin  and  stare  straight  before  him 
for  hours  at  a  time,  until  I  am  almost  frantic  to  demand 
of  him  what  are  his  thoughts.  Sometimes  I  doubt  that  he 
is  thinking  at  all.  I  give  him  up.  I  cannot  fathom  him. 

Altogether  a  depressing  day  of  rain-splatter  and  wash 
of  water  across  the  deck.  I  can  see,  now,  that  the  problem 
of  sailing  a  ship  with  five  thousand  tons  of  coal  around 
the  Horn  is  more  serious  than  I  had  thought.  So  deep  is 
the  Elsinore  in  the  water  that  she  is  like  a  log  awash.  Her 
tall,  six-foot  bulwarks  of  steel  cannot  keep  the  seas  from 
boarding  her.  She  has  not  the  buoyancy  one  is  accustomed 
to  ascribe  to  ships.  On  the  contrary,  she  is  weighted  down 
until  she  is  dead,  so  that,  for  this  one  day  alone,  I  am 
appalled  at  the  thought  of  how  many  thousands  of  tons 
of  the  North  Atlantic  have  boarded  her  and  poured  out 
through  her  spouting  scuppers  and  clanging  ports. 

Yes,  a  depressing  day.  The  two  mates  have  alternated 
on  deck  and  in  their  bunks.  Captain  West  has  dozed  on 
the  cabin  sofa  or  read  the  Bible.  Miss  West  is  still  sea 
sick.  I  have  tired  myself  out  with  reading,  and  the  fuzzi- 
ness  of  my  unsleeping  brain  makes  for  melancholy.  Even 
Wada  is  anything  but  a  cheering  spectacle,  crawling  out  of 
his  bunk,  as  he  does  at  stated  intervals,  and  with  sick, 
glassy  eyes  trying  to  discern  what  my  needs  may  be.  I 
almost  wish  I  could  get  seasick  myself.  I  had  never 
dreamed  that  a  sea  voyage  could  be  so  unenlivening  as  this 
one  is  proving. 


CHAPTER   XH 

ANOTHER  morning  of  overcast  sky  and  leaden  sea,  and 
of  the  Elsinore,  under  half  her  canvas,  clanging  her  deck 
ports,  spouting  water  from  her  scuppers,  and  dashing  east 
ward  into  the  heart  of  the  Atlantic.  And  I  have  failed  to 
sleep  half  an  hour  all  told.  At  this  rate,  in  a  very  short 
time,  I  shall  have  consumed  all  the  cream  of  tartar  on  the 
ship.  I  never  have  had  hives  like  these  before.  I  can't 
understand  it.  So  long  as  I  keep  my  lamp  burning  and 
read,  I  am  untroubled.  The  instant  I  put  out  the  lamp 
and  drowse  off,  the  irritation  starts  and  the  lumps  on  my 
skin  begin  to  form. 

Miss  "West  may  be  seasick,  but  she  cannot  be  comatose, 
because  at  frequent  intervals  she  sends  the  steward  to  me 
with  more  cream  of  tartar. 

I  have  had  a  revelation  to-day.  I  have  discovered  Cap 
tain  West.  He  is  a  Samurai. — You  remember  the  Samurai 
that  H.  G.  Wells  describes  in  his  "Modern  Utopia" — the 
superior  breed  of  men  who  know  things  and  are  masters 
of  life  and  of  their  fellow  men  in  a  super-benevolent,  super- 
wise  way  ?  Well,  that  is  what  Captain  West  is.  Let  me  tell 
it  to  you. 

We  had  a  shift  of  wind  to-day.  In  the  height  of  a  south 
west  gale,  the  wind  shifted,  in  the  instant,  eight  points, 
which  is  equivalent  to  a  quarter  of  the  circle.  Imagine  it ! 
Imagine  a  gale  howling  from  out  of  the  southwest.  And 
then  imagine  the  wind,  in  a  heavier  and  more  violent  gale, 
abruptly  smiting  you  from  the  northwest.  We  had  been 
sailing  through  a  circular  storm,  Captain  West  vouchsafed 
to  me,  before  the  event,  and  the  wind  could  be  expected 
to  box  the  compass. 

77 


78          THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

Clad  in  sea-boots,  oilskins,  and  sou'wester,  I  had  for 
some  time  been  hanging  upon  the  rail  at  the  break  of  the 
poop,  staring  down  fascinated  at  the  poor  devils  of  sailors, 
repeatedly  up  to  their  necks  in  water,  or  submerged,  or 
dashed  like  'straws  about  the  deck,  while  they  pulled  and 
hauled,  stupidly,  blindly,  and  in  evident  fear,  under  the 
orders  of  Mr.  Pike. 

Mr.  Pike  was  with  them,  working  them  and  working 
with  them.  He  took  every  chance  they  took,  yet  somehow 
he  escaped  being  washed  off  his  feet,  though  several  times 
I  saw  him  entirely  buried  from  view.  There  was  more 
than  luck  in  the  matter;  for  I  saw  him,  twice,  at  the  head 
of  a  line  of  the  men,  himself  next  to  the  pin.  And  twice, 
in  this  position,  I  saw  the  North  Atlantic  curl  over  the  rail 
and  fall  upon  them.  And  each  time  he  alone  remained, 
holding  the  turn  of  the  rope  on  the  pin,  while  the  rest  of 
them  were  rolled  and  sprawled  helplessly  away. 

Almost  it  seemed  to  me  good  fun,  as  at  a  circus,  watch 
ing  their  antics.  But  I  did  not  apprehend  the  seriousness 
of  the  situation,  until,  the  wind  screaming  higher  than 
ever  and  the  sea  a-smoke  and  white  with  wrath,  two  men 
did  not  get  up  from  the  deck.  One  was  carried  away 
for'ard  with  a  broken  leg — it  was  Lars  Jacobsen,  a  dull- 
witted  Scandinavian;  and  the  other,  Kid  Twist,  was  car 
ried  away,  unconscious,  with  a  bleeding  scalp. 

In  the  height  of  the  gusts,  in  my  high  position  where 
the  seas  did  not  break,  I  found  myself  compelled  to  cling 
tightly  to  the  rail  to  escape  being  blown  away.  My  face 
was  stung  to  severe  pain  by  the  high-driving  spindrift, 
and  I  had  a  feeling  that  the  wind  was  blowing  the  cobwebs 
out  of  my  sleep-starved  brain. 

And  all  the  time,  slender,  aristocratic,  graceful  in  stream 
ing  oilskins,  in  apparent  unconcern,  giving  no  orders,  ef 
fortlessly  accommodating  his  body  to  the  violent  rolling 
of  the  Elsinore,  Captain  West  strolled  up  and  down. 


THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE          79 

It  was  at  this  stage  in  the  gale  that  he  unbent  sufficiently 
to  tell  me  that  we  were  going  through  a  circular  storm 
and  that  the  wind  was  boxing  the  compass.  I  did  notice 
that  he  kept  his  gaze  pretty  steadily  fixed  on  the  overcast, 
cloud-driven  sky.  At  last,  when  it  seemed  the  wind  could 
not  possibly  blow  more  fiercely,  he  found  in  the  sky  what 
he  sought.  It  was  then  that  I  first  heard  his  voice — a 
sea-voice,  clear  as  a  bell,  distinct  as  silver,  and  of  an  in 
effable  sweetness  and  volume  as  it  might  be  the  trump  of 
Gabriel.  That  voice ! — effortless,  dominating !  The  mighty 
throat  of  the  storm,  made  articulate  by  the  resistance  of 
the  Elsinore,  shouted  in  all  the  stays,  bellowed  in  the 
shrouds,  thrummed  the  taut  ropes  against  the  steel  masts, 
and  from  the  myriad  tiny  ropes  far  aloft  evoked  a  devil's 
chorus  of  shrill  pipings  and  screechings.  And  yet,  through 
this  bedlam  of  noise  came  Captain  West's  voice,  as  of  a 
spirit  visitant,  distinct,  unrelated,  mellow  as  all  music  and 
mighty  as  an  archangel's  call  to  judgment.  And  it  car 
ried  understanding  and  command  to  the  man  at  the  wheel, 
and  to  Mr.  Pike,  waist-deep  in  the  wash  of  sea  below  us. 
And  the  man  at  the  wheel  obeyed,  and  Mr.  Pike  obeyed, 
barking  and  snarling  orders  to  the  poor  wallowing  devils 
who  wallowed  on  and  obeyed  him  in  turn.  And  as  the 
voice,  was  the  face.  This  face  I  had  never  seen  before. 
It  was  the  face  of  the  spirit  visitant,  chaste  with  wisdom, 
lighted  by  a  splendor  of  power,  and  calm.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  calm  that  smote  me  most  of  all.  It  was  as  the  calm 
of  one  who  had  crossed  chaos  to  bless  poor  sea-worn  men 
with  the  word  that  all  was  well.  It  was  not  the  face  of  the 
fighter.  To  my  thrilled  imagination  it  was  the  face  of 
one  who  dwelt  beyond  all  strivings  of  the  elements  and 
greedy  dissensions  of  the  blood. 

The  Samurai  had  arrived,  in  thunders  and  lightnings, 
riding  the  wings  of  the  storm,  directing  the  gigantic,  labor 
ing  Elsinore  in  all  her  intricate  massiveness,  commanding 


80  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  wisps  of  humans  to  his  will,  which  was  the  will  of 
wisdom. 

And  then,  that  wonderful  Gabriel  voice  of  his,  silent 
(while  his  creatures  labored  his  will),  unconcerned,  de 
tached  and  casual,  more  slenderly  tall  and  aristocratic  than 
ever  in  his  streaming  oilskins,  Captain  West  touched  my 
shoulder  and  pointed  astern  over  our  weather  quarter.  I 
looked,  and  all  that  I  could  see  was  a  vague  smoke  of  sea 
and  air  and  a  cloud-bank  of  sky  that  tore  at  the  ocean's 
breast.  And  at  the  same  moment  the  gale  from  the  south 
west  ceased.  There  was  no  gale,  no  moving  zephyrs,  noth 
ing  but  a  vast  quietude  of  air. 

"What  is  it?"  I  gasped,  out  of  equilibrium  from  the 
abrupt  cessation  of  wind. 

"The  shift,"  he  said.     "There  she  comes." 

And  it  came,  from  the  northwest,  a  blast  of  wind,  a 
blow,  an  atmospheric  impact  that  bewildered  and  stunned 
and  again  made  the  Elsinore  harp  protest.  It  forced  me 
down  on  the  rail.  I  was  like  a  windlestraw.  As  I  faced 
this  new  abruptness  of  gale,  it  drove  the  air  back  into  my 
lungs  so  that  I  suffocated  and  turned  my  head  aside  to 
breathe  in  the  lee  of  the  draft.  The  man  at  the  wheel 
again  listened  to  the  Gabriel  voice;  and  Mr.  Pike,  on  the 
deck  below,  listened  and  repeated  the  will  of  the  voice; 
and  Captain  West,  in  slender  and  stately  balance,  leaned 
into  the  face  of  the  wind  and  slowly  paced  the  deck. 

It  was  magnificent.  Now,  and  for  the  first  time,  I  knew 
the  sea,  and  the  men  who  overlord  the  sea.  Captain  West 
had  vindicated  himself,  exposited  himself.  At  the  height 
and  crisis  of  storm  he  had  taken  charge  of  the  Elsinore, 
and  Mr.  Pike  had  become,  what  in  truth  was  all  he  was, 
the  foreman  of  a  gang  of  men,  the  slave-driver  of  slaves, 
serving  the  one  from  beyond,  the  Samurai. 

A  minute  or  so  longer  Captain  West  strolled  up  and 
down,  leaning  easily  into  the  face  of  this  new  and  abomi- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  81 

nable  gale  or  resting  his  back  against  it,  and  then  he  went 
below,  pausing  for  a  moment,  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the 
chart-room  door,  to  cast  a  last  measuring  look  at  the  storm- 
white  sea  and  wrath-somber  sky  he  had  mastered. 

Ten  minutes  later,  below,  passing  the  open  cabin  door, 
I  glanced  in  and  saw  him.  Sea-boots  and  storm-trappings 
were  gone ;  his  feet,  in  carpet  slippers,  rested  on  a  hassock ; 
while  he  lay  back  in  the  big  leather  chair  smoking  dreamily, 
his  eyes  wide  open,  absorbed,  non-seeing — or,  if  they  saw, 
seeing  things  beyond  the  reeling  cabin  walls  and  beyond 
my  ken.  I  have  developed  an  immense  respect  for  Captain 
West,  though  now  I  know  him  less  than  the  little  I  thought 
I  knew  him  before. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

SMALL  wonder  that  Miss  West  remains  seasick  on  an 
ocean  like  this,  which  has  become  a  factory  where  the 
veering  gales  manufacture  the  selectest  and  most  mountain 
ous  brands  of  cross-seas.  The  way  the  poor  Elsinore 
pitches,  plunges,  rolls,  and  shivers,  with  all  her  lofty  spars 
and  masts  and  all  her  five  thousand  tons  of  dead-weight 
cargo,  is  astonishing.  To  me  she  is  the  most  erratic  thing 
imaginable ;  yet  Mr.  Pike,  with  whom  I  now  pace  the  poop 
on  occasion,  tells  me  that  coal  is  a  good  cargo,  and  that  the 
Elsinore  is  well-loaded  because  he  saw  to  it  himself. 

He  will  pause  abruptly,  in  the  midst  of  his  interminable 
pacing,  in  order  to  watch  her  in  her  maddest  antics.  The 
sight  is  very  pleasant  to  him,  for  his  eyes  glisten  and  a 
faint  glow  seems  to  irradiate  his  face  and  impart  to  it  a 
hint  of  ecstasy.  The  Elsinore  has  a  snug  place  in  his 
heart,  I  am  confident.  He  calls  her  behavior  admirable, 
and  at  such  times  will  repeat  to  me  that  it  was  he  who 
saw  to  her  loading. 

It  is  very  curious,  the  habituation  of  this  man,  through 
a  long  life  on  the  sea,  to  the  motion  of  the  sea.  There  is 
a  rhythm  to  this  chaos  of  crossing,  buffeting  waves.  I 
sense  this  rhythm,  although  I  cannot  solve  it.  But  Mr. 
Pike  knows  it.  Again  and  again,  as  we  paced  up  and 
down  this  afternoon,  when  to  me  nothing  unusually  antic 
seemed  impending,  he  would  seize  my  arm  as  I  lost  balance 
and  as  the  Elsinore  smashed  down  on  her  side  and  heeled 
over  and  over  with  a  colossal  roll  that  seemed  never  to 
end,  and  that  always  ended  with  an  abrupt,  snap-the- 
whip  effect  as  she  began  the  corresponding  roll  to  wind- 

82 


THE   MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE          83 

ward.  In  vain  I  strove  to  learn  how  Mr.  Pike  forecasts 
these  antics,  and  I  am  driven  to  believe  that  he  does  not 
consciously  forecast  them  at  all.  He  feels  them;  he  knows 
them.  They,  and  the  sea,  are  ingrained  in  him. 

Toward  the  end  of  our  little  promenade,  I  was  guilty  of 
impatiently  shaking  off  a  sudden  seizure  of  my  arm  in  his 
big  paw.  If  ever,  in  an  hour,  the  Elsinore  had  been  less 
gymnastic  than  at  that  moment,  I  had  not  noticed  it.  So  I 
shook  off  the  sustaining  clutch,  and  the  next  moment  the 
Elsitwre  had  smashed  down  and  buried  a  couple  of  hun 
dred  feet  of  her  starboard  rail  beneath  the  sea,  while  I  had 
shot  down  the  deck  and  smashed  myself  breathless  against 
the  wall  of  the  chart-house.  My  ribs  and  one  shoulder  are 
sore  from  it  yet.  Now  how  did  he  know? 

And  he  never  staggers  nor  seems  in  danger  of  being 
rolled  away.  On  the  contrary,  such  a  surplus  of  surety 
of  balance  has  he,  that  time  and  again  he  lent  his  surplus 
to  me.  I  begin  to  have  more  respect,  not  for  the  sea,  but 
for  the  men  of  the  sea,  and  not  for  the  sweepings  of  sea 
men  that  are  as  slaves  on  our  decks,  but  for  the  real  sea 
men  who  are  their  masters — for  Captain  West,  for  Mr. 
Pike,  yes,  and  for  Mr.  Mellaire,  dislike  him  as  I  do. 

As  early  as  three  in  the  afternoon  the  wind,  still  a  gale, 
went  back  to  the  southwest.  Mr.  Mellaire  had  the  deck, 
and  he  went  below  and  reported  the  change  to  Captain 
West. 

"We'll  wear  ship  at  four,  Mr.  Pathurst,"  the  second 
mate  told  me  when  he  came  back.  "You'll  find  it  an  in 
teresting  maneuver. ' ' 

"But  why  wait  till  four?"  I  asked. 

"The  Captain's  orders,  sir.  The  watches  will  be  chang 
ing,  and  we'll  have  the  use  of  both  of  them,  without  work 
ing  a  hardship  on  the  watch  below  by  calling  it  out  now. ' ' 

And,  when  both  watches  were  on  deck,  Captain  West, 
again  in  oilskins,  came  out  of  the  chart-house.  Mr.  Pike, 


84  THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

out  on  the  bridge,  took  charge  of  the  many  men  who,  on 
deck  and  on  the  poop,  were  to  manage  the  mizzen  braces, 
while  Mr.  Mellaire  went  for'ard  with  his  watch  to  handle 
the  fore  and  main-braces.  It  was  a  pretty  maneuver,  a 
play  of  leverages,  by  which  they  eased  the  force  of  the 
wind  on  the  after  part  of  the  Elsinore  and  used  the  force 
of  the  wind  on  the  for'ard  part. 

Captain  West  gave  no  orders  whatever,  and,  to  all  in 
tents,  was  quite  oblivious  of  what  was  being  done.  He 
was  again  the  favored  passenger,  taking  a  stroll  for  his 
health's  sake.  And  yet  I  knew  that  both  his  officers  were 
uncomfortably  aware  of  his  presence  and  were  keyed  to 
their  finest  seamanship.  I  know,  now,  Captain  West's 
position  on  board.  He  is  the  brains  of  the  Elsinore.  He 
is  the  master  strategist.  There  is  more  in  directing  a  ship 
on  the  ocean  than  in  standing  watches  and  ordering  men 
to  pull  and  haul.  They  are  pawns,  and  the  two  officers 
are  pieces,  with  which  Captain  West  plays  the  game  against 
sea  and  wind  and  season  and  ocean  current.  He  is  the 
knower.  They  are  the  tongue  by  which  he  makes  his 
knowledge  articulate. 


A  bad  night — equally  bad  for  the  Elsinore  and  for  me. 
She  is  receiving  a  sharp  buffeting  at  the  hands  of  the 
wintry  North  Atlantic.  I  fell  asleep  early,  exhausted  from 
lack  of  sleep,  and  awoke  in  an  hour  frantic  with  my  lumped 
and  burning  skin.  More  cream  of  tartar,  more  reading, 
more  vain  attempts  to  sleep,  until  shortly  before  five,  when 
the  steward  brought  me  my  coffee,  I  wrapped  myself  in 
my  dressing  gown,  and,  like  a  being  distracted,  prowled 
into  the  cabin.  I  dozed  in  a  leather  chair  and  was  thrown 
out  by  a  violent  roll  of  the  ship.  I  tried  the  sofa,  sinking 
to  sleep  immediately,  and  immediately  thereafter  finding 
myself  precipitated  to  the  floor.  I  am  convinced  that  when 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  85 

Captain  West  naps  on  the  sofa  he  is  only  half  asleep.  How 
else  can  he  maintain  so  precarious  a  position? — unless,  in 
him,  too,  the  sea  and  its  motion  be  ingrained. 

I  wandered  into  the  dining-room,  wedged  myself  into  a 
screwed  chair,  and  fell  asleep,  my  head  on  my  arms,  my 
arms  on  the  table.  And  at  a  quarter  past  seven  the 
steward  roused  me  by  shaking  my  shoulders.  It  was  time 
to  set  table. 

Drugged  with  the  brief  heaviness  of  sleep  I  had  had,  I 
dressed  and  stumbled  up  on  the  poop,  in  the  hope  that 
the  wind  would  clear  my  brain.  Mr.  Pike  had  the  watch, 
and  with  sure,  age-lagging  step,  he  paced  the  deck.  The 
man  is  a  marvel — sixty-nine  years  old,  a  life  of  hardship, 
and  as  sturdy  as  a  lion.  Yet,  of  the  past  night  alone,  his 
hours  had  been:  four  to  six  in  the  afternoon  on  deck; 
eight  to  twelve  on  deck;  and  four  to  eight  in  the  morning 
on  deck.  In  a  few  minutes  he  would  be  relieved,  but  at 
midday  he  would  again  be  on  deck. 

I  leaned  on  the  poop  rail  and  stared  for'ard  along  the 
dreary  waste  of  deck.  Every  port  and  scupper  was  work 
ing  to  ease  the  weight  of  North  Atlantic  that  perpetually 
fell  on  board.  Between  the  rush  of  the  cascades,  streaks 
of  rust  showed  everywhere.  Some  sort  of  a  wooden  pin- 
rail  had  carried  away  on  the  starboard-rail  at  the  foot  of 
the  mizzen  shrouds,  and  an  amazing  raffle  of  ropes  and 
tackles  washed  about.  Here,  Nancy  and  half  a  dozen  men 
worked  sporadically,  and  in  fear  of  their  lives,  to  clear  the 
tangle. 

The  long-suffering  bleakness  was  very  pronounced  on 
Nancy's  face,  and  when  the  walls  of  water,  in  impending 
downfall,  reared  above  the  Elsinore's  rail,  he  was  always 
the  first  to  leap  for  the  life-line  which  had  been  stretched 
fore  and  aft  across  the  wide  space  of  deck. 

The  rest  of  the  men  were  scarcely  less  backward  in  drop- 
pir-^j  their  work  and  springing  to  safety — if  safety  it 


86  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

might  be  called,  to  grip  a  rope  in  both  hands  and  have 
legs  sweep  out  from  under,  and  be  wrenched  full-length 
upon  the  boiling  surface  of  an  ice-cold  flood.  Small  won 
der  they  look  wretched.  Bad  as  their  condition  was  when 
they  came  aboard  at  Baltimore,  they  look  far  worse  now, 
what  of  the  last  several  days  of  wet  and  freezing  hardship. 

From  time  to  time,  completing  his  for'ard  pace  along 
the  poop,  Mr.  Pike  would  pause,  ere  he  retraced  his  steps, 
and  snort  sardonic  glee  at  what  happened  to  the  poor 
devils  below.  The  man's  heart  is  callous.  A  thing  of  iron, 
he  has  endured;  and  he  has  no  patience  nor  sympathy 
with  these  creatures  who  lack  his  own  excessive  iron. 

I  noticed  the  stone-deaf  man,  the  twisted  oaf  whose 
face  I  have  described  as  being  that  of  an  ill-treated  and 
feeble-minded  faun.  His  bright,  liquid,  pain-filled  eyes 
were  more  filled  with  pain  than  ever,  his  face  still  more 
lean  and  drawn  with  suffering.  And  yet  his  face  showed 
an  excess  of  nervousness,  sensitiveness,  and  a  pathetic 
eagerness  to  please  and  do.  I  could  not  help  observing 
that,  despite  his  dreadful  sense-handicap  and  his  wrecked 
frail  body,  he  did  the  most  work,  was  always  the  last  of 
the  group  to  spring  to  the  life-line  and  always  the  first  to 
loose  the  life-line  and  slosh  knee-deep  or  waist-deep  through 
the  churning  water  to  attack  the  immense  and  depressing 
tangle  of  rope  and  tackle. 

I  remarked  to  Mr.  Pike  that  the  men  seemed  thinner  and 
weaker  than  when  they  came  on  board,  and  he  delayed 
replying  for  a  moment  while  he  stared  down  at  them  with 
that  cattle-buyer's  eye  of  his. 

"Sure  they  are,"  he  said  disgustedly.  "A  weak  breed, 
that's  what  they  are — nothing  to  build  on,  no  stamina. 
The  least  thing  drags  them  down.  Why,  in  my  day  we 
grew  fat  on  work  like  that — only  we  didn  't ;  we  worked  so 
hard  there  wasn't  any  chance  for  fat.  We  kept  in  fighting 
trim,  that  was  all.  But  as  for  this  scum  and  slum — say, 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  87 

you  remember,  Mr.  Pathurst,  that  man  I  spoke  to,  the  first 
day,  who  said  his  name  was  Charles  Davis?" 

"The  one  you  thought  there  was  something  the  matter 
with?" 

"Yes,  and  there  was,  too.  He's  in  that  'midship  room 
with  the  Greek  now.  He'll  never  do  a  tap  of  work  the 
whole  voyage.  He's  a  hospital  case,  if  there  ever  was  one. 
Talk  about  shot  to  pieces!  He's  got  holes  in  him  I  could 
shove  my  fist  through.  I  don't  know  whether  they're  per 
forating  ulcers,  or  cancers,  or  cannon-shot  wound,  or 
what  not.  And  he  had  the  nerve  to  tell  me  they  showed 
up  after  he  came  on  board!" 

"And  he  had  them  all  the  time?"  I  asked. 

"All  the  time!  Take  my  word,  Mr.  Pathurst,  they're 
years  old.  But  he's  a  wonder.  I  watched  him  those  first 
days,  sent  him  aloft,  had  him  down  in  the  fore-hold  trim 
ming  a  few  tons  of  coal,  did  everything  to  him,  and  he 
never  showed  a  wince.  Being  up  to  the  neck  in  the  salt 
water  finally  fetched  him,  and  now  he's  reported  off  duty 
— for  the  voyage.  And  he'll  draw  his  wages  for  the  whole 
time,  have  all  night  in,  and  never  do  a  tap.  Oh,  he's  a 
hot  one  to  have  passed  over  on  us,  and  the  Elsinore's  an 
other  man  short." 

*  *  Another ! "  I  exclaimed.    ' '  Is  the  Greek  going  to  die  ? ' ' 

' '  No  fear.  I  '11  have  him  steering  in  a  few  days.  I  refer 
to  the  misfits.  If  we  rolled  a  dozen  of  them  together  they 
wouldn't  make  one  real  man.  I'm  not  saying  it  to  alarm 
you,  for  there 's  nothing  alarming  about  it ;  but  we  're  going 
to  have  proper  hell  this  voyage."  He  broke  off  to  stare 
reflectively  at  his  broken  knuckles,  as  if  estimating  how 
much  drive  was  left  in  them,  then  sighed  and  concluded, 
*  *  Well,  I  can  see  I  've  got  my  work  cut  out  for  me. ' ' 

Sympathizing  with  Mr.  Pike  is  futile;  the  only  effect  is 
to  make  his  mood  blacker.  I  tried  it,  and  he  retaliated 
with: 


88          THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

"You  oughta  see  the  bloke  with  curvature  of  the  spine 
in  Mr.  Mellaire's  watch.  He's  a  proper  hobo,  too,  and  a 
land  lubber,  and  don't  weigh  more'n  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  must  be  fifty  years  old,  and  's  got  curvature  of  the 
spine,  and  's  able  seaman,  if  you  please,  on  the  Elsinore. 
And  worse  than  all  that,  he  puts  it  over  on  you ;  he 's  nasty, 
he's  mean,  he's  a  viper,  a  wasp,  he  ain't  afraid  of  any 
thing,  because  he  knows  you  dassent  hit  him  for  fear  of 
croaking  him.  Oh,  he's  a  pearl  of  purest  ray  serene,  if 
anybody  should  slide  down  a  backstay  and  ask  you.  If 
you  fail  to  identify  him  any  other  way,  his  name  is  Mulli 
gan  Jacobs." 

After  breakfast,  again  on  deck,  in  Mr.  Mellaire's  watch, 
I  discovered  another  efficient.  He  was  at  the  wheel,  a 
small,  well-knit,  muscular  man  of  say  forty-five,  with  black 
hair  graying  on  the  temples,  a  bit  eagle-faced,  swarthy, 
with  keen,  intelligent  black  eyes. 

Mr.  Mellaire  vindicated  my  judgment  by  telling  me  the 
man  was  the  best  sailor  in  his  watch,  a  proper  seaman. 
When  he  referred  to  the  man  as  the  Maltese  Cockney,  and 
I  asked  why,  he  replied: 

"First,  because  he  is  Maltese,  Mr.  Pathurst;  and,  next, 
because  he  talks  Cockney  like  a  native.  And  depend  upon 
it,  he  heard  Bow  Bells  before  he  lisped  his  first  word." 

"And  has  0 'Sullivan  bought  Andy  Fay's  sea-boots 
yet?"  I  queried. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Miss  West  emerged  upon 
the  poop.  She  was  as  rosy  and  vital  as  ever,  and  certainly, 
if  she  had  been  seasick,  she  flew  no  signals  of  it.  As  she 
came  toward  me,  greeting  me,  I  could  not  help  remarking 
again  the  lithe  and  springy  limb-movement  with  which  she 
walked,  and  her  fine,  firm  skin.  Her  neck,  free  in  a  sailor 
collar,  with  white  sweater  open  at  the  throat,  seemed  al 
most  redoubtably  strong  to  my  sleepless,  jaundiced  eyes. 


THE    MUTINY   OP    THE    ELSINORE  89 

Her  hair,  under  a  white  knitted  cap,  was  smooth  and  well 
groomed.  In  fact,  the  totality  of  impression  she  conveyed 
was  of  a  well-groomedness  one  would  not  expect  of  a  sea 
captain's  daughter,  much  less  of  a  woman  who  had  been 
seasick.  Life! — that  is  the  key  of  her,  the  essential  note 
of  her — life  and  health.  I'll  wager  she  has  never  enter 
tained  a  morbid  thought  in  that  practical,  balanced,  sensi 
ble  head  of  hers. 

"And  how  have  you  been?"  she  asked,  then  rattled  on 
with  sheer  exuberance  ere  I  could  answer.  "Had  a  lovely 
night's  sleep.  I  was  really  over  my  sickness  yesterday,  but 
I  just  devoted  myself  to  resting  up.  I  slept  ten  solid 
hours — what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  wish  I  could  say  the  same,"  I  replied  with  appropri 
ate  dejection,  as  I  swung  in  beside  her,  for  she  had  evinced 
her  intention  of  promenading. 

"Oh,  then  you've  been  sick?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  I  answered  dryly.  "And  I  wish 
I  had  been.  I  haven't  had  five  hours'  sleep  all  told  since 
I  came  on  board.  These  pestiferous  hives  ..." 

I  held  up  a  lumpy  wrist  to  show.  She  took  one  glance 
at  it,  halted  abruptly,  and,  neatly  balancing  herself  to  the 
roll,  took  my  wrist  in  both  her  hands  and  gave  it  close 
scrutiny. 

"Mercy!"  she  cried;  and  then  began  to  laugh. 

I  was  of  two  minds.  Her  laughter  was  delightful  to 
the  ear,  there  was  such  a  mellowness,  and  healthiness,  and 
frankness  about  it.  On  the  other  hand,  that  it  should  be 
directed  at  my  misfortune  was  exasperating.  I  suppose 
my  perplexity  showed  in  my  face,  for,  when  she  had  eased 
her  laughter  and  looked  at  me  with  a  sobering  countenance, 
she  immediately  went  off  into  more  peals. 

"You  poor  child!"  she  gurgled  at  last.  "And  when  I 
think  of  all  the  cream  of  tartar  I  made  you  consume ! ' ' 

It  was  rather  presumptuous  of  her  to  poor-child  me,  and 


90  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

I  resolved  to  take  advantage  of  the  data  I  already  possessed 
in  order  to  ascertain  just  how  many  years  she  was  my 
junior.  She  had  told  me  she  was  twelve  years  old  the 
time  the  Dixie  collided  with  the  river  steamer  in  San  Fran 
cisco  Bay.  Very  well,  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  ascertain  the 
date  of  that  disaster  and  I  had  her.  But  in  the  meantime 
she  laughed  at  me  and  my  hives. 

"I  suppose  it  is — er — humorous,  in  some  sort  of  way," 
I  said  a  bit  stiffly,  only  to  find  that  there  was  no  use  in 
being  stiff  with  Miss  "West,  for  it  only  set  her  off  into  more 
laughter. 

"What  you  needed, "  she  enounced,  with  fresh  gurglings, 
"was  an  exterior  treatment." 

'  *  Don 't  tell  me  I  Ve  got  the  chicken-pox  or  the  measles, ' ' 
I  protested. 

"No."  She  shook  her  head  emphatically  while  she  en 
joyed  another  paroxysm.  "What  you  are  suffering  from 
is  a  severe  attack  ..." 

She  paused  deliberately,  and  looked  me  straight  in  the 
eyes. 

"Of  bedbugs,"  she  concluded.  And  then,  all  serious 
ness  and  practicality,  she  went  on :  "  But  we  '11  have  that 
righted  in  a  jiffy.  I'll  turn  the  Elsinore's  after-quarters 
upside  down,  though  I  know  there  are  none  in  father's 
room  or  mine.  And  though  this  is  my  first  voyage  with 
Mr.  Pike,  I  know  he's  too  hard-bitten — "  (Here  I  laughed 
at  her  involuntary  pun.)  " — an  old  sailor  not  to  know 
that  his  room  is  clean.  Yours — "  (I  was  perturbed  for 
fear  she  was  going  to  say  that  I  had  brought  them  on 
board.)  " — have  most  probably  drifted  in  from  for'ard. 
They  always  have  them  for'ard." 

"And  now,  Mr.  Pathurst,  I  am  going  down  to  attend  to 
your  case.  You'd  better  get  your  Wada  to  make  up  a 
camping  kit  for  you.  The  next  couple  of  nights  you'll 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  91 

spend  in  the  cabin  or  chart-room.  And  be  sure  Wada  re 
moves  all  silver  and  metallic  tarnishable  stuff  from  your 
rooms.  There's  going  to  be  all  sorts  of  fumigating,  and 
tearing  out  of  wood-work,  and  rebuilding.  Trust  me.  I 
know  the  vermin." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

SUCH  a  cleaning  up  and  turning  over !  For  two  nights, 
one  in  the  chart-room  and  one  on  the  cabin  sofa,  I  have 
soaked  myself  in  sleep,  and  I  am  now  almost  stupid  with 
excess  of  sleep.  The  land  seems  very  far  away.  By  some 
strange  quirk,  I  have  an  impression  that  weeks,  or  months, 
have  passed  since  I  left  Baltimore  on  that  bitter  March 
morning.  And  yet  it  was  March  twenty-eighth,  and  this 
is  only  the  first  week  in  April. 

I  was  entirely  right  in  my  first  estimate  of  Miss  West. 
She  is  the  most  capable,  practically  masterful  woman  I 
have  ever  encountered.  What  passed  between  her  and 
Mr.  Pike  I  do  not  know ;  but,  whatever  it  was,  she  was  con 
vinced  that  he  was  not  the  erring  one.  In  some  strange 
way,  my  two  rooms  are  the  only  ones  which  have  been  in 
vaded  by  this  plague  of  vermin.  Under  Miss  West's  in 
structions,  bunks,  drawers,  shelves,  and  all  superficial 
wood-work  have  been  ripped  out.  She  worked  the  car 
penter  from  daylight  till  dark,  and  then,  after  a  night  of 
fumigation,  two  of  the  sailors,  with  turpentine  and  white 
lead,  put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  cleansing  operations. 
The  carpenter  is  now  busy  rebuilding  my  rooms.  Then 
will  come  the  painting,  and  in  two  or  three  more  days  I 
expect  to  be  settled  back  in  my  quarters. 

Of  the  men  who  did  the  turpentining  and  white-leading, 
there  have  been  four.  Two  of  them  were  quickly  rejected 
by  Miss  West  as  not  being  up  to  the  work.  The  first  one, 
Steve  Roberts,  which  he  told  me  was  his  name,  is  an  inter 
esting  fellow.  I  talked  with  him  quite  a  bit  ere  Miss  West 
sent  him  packing  and  told  Mr.  Pike  that  she  wanted  a  real 
sailor. 

92 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  93 

This  is  the  first  time  Steve  Roberts  has  ever  seen  the 
sea.  How  he  happened  to  drift  from  the  western  cattle- 
ranges  to  New  York,  he  did  not  explain,  any  more  than  did 
he  explain  how  he  came  to  ship  on  the  Elsinore.  But  here 
he  is,  not  a  sailor  on  horseback,  but  a  cowboy  on  the  sea. 
He  is  a  small  man,  but  most  powerfully  built.  His  shoul 
ders  are  very  broad,  and  his  muscles  bulge  under  his  shirt ; 
and  yet  he  is  slender-waisted,  lean-limbed,  and  hollow- 
cheeked.  This  last,  however,  is  not  due  to  sickness  nor  ill 
health.  Tyro  as  he  is  on  the  sea,  Steve  Roberts  is  keen 
and  intelligent  .  .  .  yes,  and  crooked.  He  has  a  way  of 
looking  straight  at  one  with  utmost  frankness  while  he 
talks,  and  yet,  it  is  at  such  moments  I  get  most  strongly 
the  impression  of  crookedness.  But  he  is  a  man,  if  trouble 
should  arise,  to  be  reckoned  with.  In  ways  he  suggests  a 
kinship  with  the  three  men  Mr.  Pike  took  so  instant  a 
prejudice  against — Kid  Twist,  Nosey  Murphy,  and  Bert 
Rhine.  And  I  have  already  noticed,  in  the  dog-watches, 
that  it  is  with  this  trio  that  Steve  Roberts  chums. 

The  second  sailor  Miss  West  rejected,  after  silently 
watching  him  work  for  five  minutes,  was  Mulligan  Jacobs, 
the  wisp  of  a  man  with  curvature  of  the  spine.  But,  before 
she  sent  him  packing,  other  things  occurred  in  which  I  was 
concerned.  I  was  in  the  room  when  Mulligan  Jacobs  first 
came  in  to  go  to  work,  and  I  could  not  help  observing  the 
startled,  avid  glance  he  threw  at  my  big  shelves  of  books. 
He  advanced  on  them  in  the  way  a  robber  might  advance 
on  a  secret  hoard  of  gold,  and  as  a  miser  would  fondle 
gold.  So  Mulligan  Jacobs  fondled  those  book-titles  with  his 
eyes. 

And  such  eyes !  All  the  bitterness  and  venom  Mr.  Pike 
had  told  me  the  man  possessed  were  there  in  his  eyes.  They 
were  small,  pale  blue,  and  gimlet-pointed  with  fire.  His 
eyelids  were  inflamed,  and  but  served  to  ensanguine  the 
bitter  and  cold-blazing  intensity  of  the  pupils.  The  man 


94  THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

was  constitutionally  a  hater,  and  I  was  not  long  in  learn 
ing  that  he  hated  all  things  except  books. 

"Would  you  care  to  read  some  of  them?"  I  said  hos 
pitably. 

All  the  caress  in  his  eyes  for  the  books  vanished  as  he 
turned  his  head  to  look  at  me,  and,  ere  he  spoke,  I  knew 
that  I,  too,  was  hated. 

"It's  hell,  ain't  it,  you  with  a  strong  body  and  servants 
to  carry  for  you  a  weight  of  books  like  this,  and  me  with 
a  curved  spine  that  puts  the  pot-hooks  of  hell-fire  into  my 
brain?" 

How  can  I  possibly  convey  the  terrible  venomousness 
with  which  he  uttered  these  words  ?  I  know  that  Mr.  Pike, 
dragging  his  feet  down  the  hall  past  my  open  door,  gave 
me  a  very  gratifying  sense  of  safety.  Being  alone  in  the 
room  with  this  man  seemed  much  the  same  as  if  I  were 
locked  in  a  cage  with  a  tiger-cat.  The  devilishness,  the 
wickedness,  and,  above  all,  the  pitch  of  glaring  hatred  with 
which  the  man  eyed  me  and  addressed  me  were  most  un 
pleasant.  I  swear  I  knew  fear — not  calculated  caution,  not 
timid  apprehension,  but  blind,  panic,  unreasoned  terror. 
The  malignancy  of  the  creature  was  blood-curdling;  nor 
did  it  require  words  to  convey  it :  it  poured  from  him,  out 
of  his  red-rimmed,  blazing  eyes,  out  of  his  withered, 
twisted,  tortured  face,  out  of  his  broken-nailed,  crooked 
talons  of  hands.  And  yet,  in  that  very  moment  of  instinc 
tive  startle  and  repulsion,  the  thought  was  in  my  mind 
that  with  one  hand  I  could  take  the  throat  of  the  weazened 
wisp  of  a  crippled  thing  and  throttle  the  malformed  life 
out  of  it. 

But  there  was  little  encouragement  in  such  thought — no 
more  than  a  man  might  feel  in  a  cave  of  rattlesnakes  or  a 
pit  of  centipedes,  for,  crush  them  with  his  very  bulk, 
nevertheless  they  would  first  sink  their  poison  into  him. 
And  so  with  this  Mulligan  Jacobs.  My  fear  of  him  was 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  95 

the  fear  of  being  infected  with  his  venom.  I  could  not 
help  it ;  for  I  caught  a  quick  vision  of  the  black  and  broken 
teeth  I  had  seen  in  his  mouth,  sinking  into  my  flesh,  pol 
luting  rne,  eating  me  with  their  acid,  destroying  me. 

One  thing  was  very  clear.  In  the  creature  was  no  fear. 
Absolutely,  he  did  not  know  fear.  He  was  as  devoid  of  it 
as  the  fetid  slime  one  treads  underfoot  in  nightmares. 
Lord,  Lord,  that  is  what  the  thing  was,  a  nightmare. 

"You  suffer  pain  often?"  I  asked,  attempting  to  get 
myself  in  hand  by  the  calculated  use  of  sympathy. 

"The  hooks  are  in  me,  in  me  brain,  white-hot  hooks 
that  burn  an'  burn/'  was  his  reply.  "But  by  what  dam 
nable  right  do  you  have  all  these  books,  and  time  to  read 
'em,  an'  all  night  in  to  read  'em,  an'  soak  in  'em,  when 
me  brain's  on  fire,  and  I'm  watch  and  watch,  an'  me 
broken  spine  won't  let  me  carry  half  a  hundredweight  of 
books  about  with  me?" 

Another  madman,  was  my  conclusion;  and  yet  I  was 
quickly  compelled  to  modify  it,  for,  thinking  to  play  with 
a  rattle-brain,  I  asked  him  what  were  the  books  up  to  half 
a  hundredweight  he  carried,  and  what  were  the  writers 
he  preferred.  His  library,  he  told  me,  among  other  things 
included,  first  and  foremost,  a  complete  Byron.  Next  was 
a  complete  Shakespeare ;  also,  a  complete  Browning  in  one 
volume.  A  full  half  dozen  he  had  in  the  forecastle  of 
Renan,  a  stray  volume  of  Lecky,  Win  wood  Reade's 
"Martyrdom  of  Man,"  several  of  Carlyle,  and  eight  or  ten 
of  Zola.  Zola  he  swore  by,  though  Anatole  France  was  a 
prime  favorite. 

He  might  be  mad,  was  my  revised  judgment,  but  he  was 
most  differently  mad  from  any  madman  I  had  ever  en 
countered.  I  talked  on  with  him  about  books  and  book 
men.  He  was  most  universal  and  particular.  He  liked 
O.  Henry.  George  Moore  was  a  cad  and  a  four-flusher. 
Edgar  Saltus'  "Anatomy  of  Negation"  was  profounder 


96          TH£S    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

than  Kant.  Maeterlinck  was  a  mystic  frump.  Emerson 
was  a  charlatan.  Ibsen's  "Ghosts"  was  the  stuff,  though 
Ibsen  was  a  bourgeois  lickspittler.  Heine  was  the  real 
goods.  He  preferred  Flaubert  to  de  Maupassant,  and 
Turgenieff  to  Tolstoy ;  but  Gorky  was  the  best  of  the  Rus 
sian  boiling.  John  Masefield  knew  what  he  was  writing 
about,  and  Joseph  Conrad  was  living  too  fat  to  turn  out 
the  stuff  he  first  turned  out. 

And  so  it  went,  the  most  amazing  running  commentary 
on  literature  I  had  ever  heard.  I  was  hugely  interested, 
and  I  quizzed  him  on  sociology.  Yes,  he  was  a  Red,  and 
knew  his  Kropotkin,  but  he  was  no  anarchist.  On  the 
other  hand,  political  action  was  a  blind-alley  leading  to 
reformism  and  quietism.  Political  socialism  had  gone  to 
pot,  while  industrial  unionism  was  the  logical  culmination 
of  Marxism.  He  was  a  direct  actionist.  The  mass  strike 
was  the  thing.  Sabotage,  not  merely  as  a  withdrawal  of 
efficiency,  but  as  a  keen  destruction-of-profits  policy,  was 
the  weapon.  Of  course  he  believed  in  the  propaganda  of 
the  deed,  but  a  man  was  a  fool  to  talk  about  it.  His  job 
was  to  do  it  and  keep  his  mouth  shut,  and  the  way  to  do 
it  was  to  shoot  the  evidence.  Of  course,  he  talked;  but 
what  of  it?  Didn't  he  have  curvature  of  the  spine?  He 
didn  't  care  when  he  got  his,  and  woe  to  the  man  who  tried 
to  give  it  to  him. 

And  while  he  talked  he  hated  me.  He  seemed  to  hate 
the  things  he  talked  about  and  espoused.  I  judged  him 
to  be  of  Irish  descent,  and  it  was  patent  that  he  was  self- 
educated.  When  I  asked  him  how  it  was  he  had  come  to 
sea,  he  replied  that  the  hooks  in  his  brain  were  as  hot  one 
place  as  another.  He  unbent  enough  to  tell  me  that  he 
had  been  an  athlete  when  he  was  a  young  man,  a  profes 
sional  foot-racer  in  Eastern  Canada.  And  then  his  disease 
had  come  upon  him,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  had 
been  a  common  tramp  and  vagabond,  and  he  bragged  of  a 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE  97 

personal  acquaintance  with,  more  city  prisons  and  county 
jails  than  any  man  that  ever  existed. 

It  was  at  this  stage  in  our  talk  that  Mr.  Pike  thrust  his 
head  into  the  doorway.  He  did  not  address  me,  but  he 
favored  me  with  a  most  sour  look  of  disapprobation.  Mr. 
Pike's  countenance  is  almost  petrified.  Any  expression 
seems  to  crack  it — with  the  exception  of  sourness.  But 
when  Mr.  Pike  wants  to  look  sour,  he  has  no  difficulty  at 
all.  His  hard-skinned,  hard-muscled  face  just  flows  to 
sourness.  Evidently,  he  condemned  my  consuming  Mulli 
gan  Jacobs'  time.  To  Mulligan  Jacobs  he  said  in  his  cus 
tomary  snarl: 

' 'Go  on  an'  get  to  your  work.  Chew  the  rag  in  your 
watch  below." 

And  then  I  got  a  sample  of  Mulligan  Jacobs.  The 
venom  of  hatred  I  had  already  seen  in  his  face  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  what  now  was  manifested.  I  had 
a  feeling  that,  like  stroking  a  cat  in  cold  weather,  did  I 
touch  his  face  it  would  crackle  electric  sparks. 

"Aw,  go  to  hell,  you  old  stiff,"  said  Mulligan  Jacobs. 

If  ever  I  had  seen  murder  in  a  man 's  eyes,  I  saw  it  then 
in  the  mate 's.  He  lunged  into  the  room,  his  arm  tensed  to 
strike,  the  hand  not  open  but  clenched.  One  stroke  of 
that  bear's  paw  and  Mulligan  Jacobs  and  all  the  poisonous 
flame  of  him  would  have  been  quenched  in  the  everlasting 
darkness.  But  he  was  unafraid.  Like  a  cornered  rat,  like 
a  rattlesnake  on  the  trail,  unflinching,  sneering,  snarling, 
he  faced  the  irate  giant.  More  than  that.  He  even  thrust 
his  face  forward  on  its  twisted  neck  to  meet  the  blow. 

It  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Pike;  it  was  too  impossible  to 
strike  that  frail,  crippled,  repulsive  thing. 

"It's  me  that  can  call  you  the  stiff,"  said  Mulligan 
Jacobs.  "I  ain't  no  Larry.  G'wan  an'  hit  me.  Why 
don't  you  hit  me?" 

And  Mr.  Pike  was  too  appalled  to  strike  the  creature. 


98          THE   MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

He,  whose  whole  career  on  the  sea  had  been  that  of  a 
bucko  driver  in  a  shambles,  could  not  strike  this  fractured 
splinter  of  a  man.  I  swear  that  Mr.  Pike  actually  strug 
gled  with  himself  to  strike.  I  saw  it.  But  he  could  not. 

"Go  on  to  your  work/'  he  ordered.  "The  voyage  is 
young  yet,  Mulligan.  I'll  have  you  eatin'  outa  my  hand 
before  it's  over." 

And  Mulligan  Jacobs'  face  thrust  another  inch  closer  on 
its  twisted  neck,  while  all  his  concentrated  rage  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  bursting  into  incandescence.  So  immense  and 
tremendous  was  the  bitterness  that  consumed  him  that  he 
could  find  no  words  to  clothe  it.  All  he  could  do  was  to 
hawk  and  guttural  deep  in  his  throat  until  I  should  not 
have  been  surprised  that  he  spat  poison  in  the  mate 's  face. 

And  Mr.  Pike  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  room, 
beaten,  absolutely  beaten. 


I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  mind.  The  picture  of  the  mate 
and  the  cripple  facing  each  other  keeps  leaping  up  under 
my  eyelids.  This  is  different  from  the  books  and  from 
what  I  know  of  existence.  It  is  revelation.  Life  is  a  pro 
foundly  amazing  thing.  "What  is  this  bitter  flame  that 
informs  Mulligan  Jacobs?  How  dare  he — with  no  hope  of 
any  profit,  not  a  hero,  not  a  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope  nor 
a  martyr  to  God,  but  a  mere  filthy,  malignant  rat — how 
dare  he,  I  ask  myself,  be  so  defiant,  so  death-inviting  ?  The 
spectacle  of  him  makes  me  doubt  all  the  schools  of  the 
metaphysicians  and  the  realists.  No  philosophy  has  a  leg 
to  stand  on  that  does  not  account  for  Mulligan  Jacobs. 
And  all  the  midnight  oil  of  philosophy  I  have  burned  does 
not  enable  me  to  account  for  Mulligan  Jacobs  .  .  .  unless 
he  be  insane.  And  then  I  don't  know. 

Was  there  ever  such  a  freight  of  human  souls  on  the  sea 
as  these  humans  with  whom  I  am  herded  on  the  Elsinoref 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOBE          99 

And  now,  working  in  my  rooms,  white-leading  and  tur 
pentining,  is  another  one  of  them.  I  have  learned  his 
name.  It  is  Arthur  Deacon.  He  is  the  pallid,  furtive- 
eyed  man  whom  I  observed  the  first  day  when  the  men 
were  routed  out  of  the  forecastle  to  man  the  windlass — 
the  man  I  so  instantly  adjudged  a  drug  fiend.  He  cer 
tainly  looks  it. 

I  asked  Mr.  Pike  his  estimate  of  the  man. 

" White  slaver,"  was  his  answer.  "Had  to  skin  outa 
New  York  to  save  his  skin.  He'll  be  consorting  with  those 
other  three  larrakins  I  gave  a  piece  of  my  mind  to. ' ' 

"And  what  do  you  make  of  them?"  I  asked. 

"A  month's  wage  to  a  pound  of  tobacco  that  a  district 
attorney  or  a  committee  of  some  sort  investigating  the  New 
York  police  is  lookin'  for  'em  right  now.  I'd  like  to  have 
the  cash  somebody's  put  up  in  New  York  to  send  them 
on  this  get-away.  Oh,  I  know  the  breed." 

"Gangsters?"  I  queried. 

"That's  what.  But  I'll  trim  their  dirty  hides.  Ill 
trim  'em.  Mr.  Pathurst,  this  voyage  ain't  started  yet; 
and  this  old  stiff's  a  long  way  from  his  last  legs.  I'll  give 
them  a  run  for  their  money.  Why,  I've  buried  better 
men  than  the  best  of  them  aboard  this  craft.  And  I'll 
bury  some  of  them  that  think  me  an  old  stiff." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  solemnly  for  a  full  half 
minute. 

"Mr.  Pathurst,  I've  heard  you're  a  writing  man.  And 
when  they  told  me  at  the  agent's  you  were  going  along 
passenger,  I  made  a  point  of  going  to  see  your  play.  Now 
I'm  not  saying  anything  about  that  play,  one  way  or  the 
other.  But  I  just  want  to  tell  you  that,  as  a  writing  man, 
you'll  get  stuff  in  plenty  to  write  about  on  this  voyage. 
Hell's  going  to  pop,  believe  me,  and  right  here  before  you 
is  the  stiff  that'll  do  a  lot  of  the  poppin'.  Some  several 
and  plenty 's  going  to  learn  who 's  an  old  stiff. ' ' 


CHAPTER   XV 

How  I  have  been  sleeping!  This  relief  of  renewed  nor 
mality  is  delicious — thanks  to  Miss  West.  Now  why  did 
not  Captain  West,  or  Mr.  Pike,  both  experienced  men, 
diagnose  my  trouble  for  me?  And  then  there  was  Wada. 
But  no;  it  required  Miss  West.  Again  I  contemplate  the 
problem  of  woman.  It  is  just  such  an  incident,  among  a 
million  others,  that  keeps  the  thinker's  gaze  fixed  on 
woman.  They  truly  are  the  mothers  and  the  conservers  of 
the  race. 

Rail  as  I  will  at  Miss  West's  red-blood  complacency  of 
life,  yet  I  must  bow  my  head  to  her  life-giving  to  me.  Prac 
tical,  sensible,  hard-headed,  a  comfort-maker  and  a  nest- 
builder,  possessing  all  the  distressing  attributes  of  the 
blind-instinctive  race-mother,  nevertheless  I  must  confess 
I  am  most  grateful  that  she  is  along.  Had  she  not  been 
on  the  Elsinore,  by  this  time  I  should  have  been  so  over 
wrought  from  lack  of  sleep  that  I  would  be  biting  my 
veins  and  howling — as  mad  a  hatter  as  any  of  our  cargo  of 
mad  hatters.  And  so  we  come  to  it — the  everlasting  mys 
tery  of  woman.  One  may  not  be  able  to  get  along  with 
her;  yet  is  it  patent,  as  of  old  time,  that  one  cannot  get 
along  without  her.  But,  regarding  Miss  West,  I  do  enter 
tain  one  fervent  hope,  namely,  that  she  is  not  a  suffra 
gette.  That  would  be  too  much. 

Captain  West  may  be  a  Samurai,  but  he  is  also  human. 
He  was  really  a  bit  fluttery  this  morning,  in  his  reserved, 
controlled  way,  when  he  regretted  the  plague  of  vermin  I 
had  encountered  in  my  rooms.  It  seems  he  has  a  keen 
sense  of  hospitality,  and  that  he  is  my  host  on  the  Elsinore, 

100 


THE    MUTINY   GJF    TIl£    ELSINOHB         101 

and  that,  although  he  is  oblivious  to  the  existence  of  the 
crew,  he  is  not  oblivious  to  my  comfort.  By  his  few  ex 
pressions  of  regret  it  appears  that  he  cannot  forgive  him 
self  for  his  careless  acceptance  of  the  erroneous  diagnosis 
of  my  affliction.  Yes ;  Captain  West  is  a  real  human  man. 
Is  he  not  the  father  of  the  slender-faced,  strapping-bodied 
Miss  West  ? 

' *  Thank  goodness  that's  settled/'  was  Miss  West's  ex 
clamation  this  morning,  when  we  met  on  the  poop  and 
after  I  had  told  her  how  gloriously  I  had  slept. 

And  then,  that  nightmare  episode  dismissed  because, 
forsooth,  for  all  practical  purposes  it  was  settled,  she  next 
said: 

"Come  on  and  see  the  chickens." 

And  I  accompanied  her  along  the  spidery  bridge  to  the 
top  of  the  'midship  house,  to  look  at  the  one  rooster  and 
the  four  dozen  fat  hens  in  the  ship's  chicken-coop. 

As  I  accompanied  her,  my  eye  dwelling  pleasurably  on 
that  vital  gait  of  hers  as  she  preceded  me,  I  could  not  help 
reflecting  that,  coming  down  on  the  tug  from  Baltimore, 
she  had  promised  not  to  bother  me  nor  require  to  be  enter 
tained. 

Come  and  see  the  chickens! — Oh,  the  sheer  female  pos- 
sessiveness  of  that  simple  invitation!  For  effrontery  of 
possessiveness,  is  there  anything  that  can  exceed  the  nest- 
making,  planet-populating,  female,  human  woman? — Come 
and  see  the  chickens!  Oh,  well,  the  sailors  for'ard  may  be 
hard  bitten,  but  I  can  promise  Miss  West  that  here,  aft,  is 
one  male  passenger,  unmarried  and  never  married,  who  is 
an  equally  hard  bitten  adventurer  on  the  sea  of  matrimony. 
When  I  go  over  the  census  I  remember  at  least  several 
women,  superior  to  Miss  West,  who  trilled  their  song  of 
sex  and  failed  to  shipwreck  me. 

As  I  read  over  what  I  have  written,  I  notice  how  the 
terminology  of  the  sea  has  stolen  into  my  mental  processes. 


102         THE   'MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Involuntarily  I  think  in  terms  of  the  sea.  Another  thing  I 
notice  is  my  excessive  use  of  superlatives.  But  then,  every 
thing  on  board  the  Elsinore  is  superlative.  I  find  myself 
continually  combing  my  vocabulary  in  quest  of  just  and 
adequate  words.  Yet  am  I  aware  of  failure.  For  example, 
all  the  words  of  all  the  dictionaries  would  fail  to  approxi 
mate  the  exceeding  terribleness  of  Mulligan  Jacobs. 

But  to  return  to  the  chickens.  Despite  every  precaution, 
it  was  evident  that  they  had  had  a  hard  time  during  the 
past  days  of  storm.  It  was  equally  evident  that  Miss  West, 
even  during  her  seasickness,  had  not  neglected  them.  Un 
der  her  directions  the  steward  had  actually  installed  a  small 
oil  stove  in  the  big  coop,  and  she  now  beckoned  him  up  to 
the  top  of  the  house  as  he  was  passing  for'ard  to  the  gal 
ley.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  instructing  him  further  in 
the  matter  of  feeding  them. 

"Where  were  the  grits?  They  needed  grits.  He  didn't 
know.  The  sack  had  been  lost  among  the  miscellaneous 
stores,  but  Mr.  Pike  had  promised  a  couple  of  sailors  that 
afternoon  to  overhaul  the  lazarette. 

" Plenty  of  ashes,"  she  told  the  steward.  " Remember. 
And  if  a  sailor  doesn't  clean  the  coop  each  day,  you  report 
to  me.  And  give  them  only  clean  food — no  spoiled  scraps, 
mind.  How  many  eggs  yesterday?" 

The  steward's  eyes  glistened  with  enthusiasm  as  he  said 
he  had  got  nine  the  day  before  and  expected  fully  a  dozen 
to-day. 

' '  The  poor  things, ' '  said  Miss  West  to  me.  ' l  You  Ve  no 
idea  how  bad  weather  reduces  their  laying."  'She  turned 
back  upon  the  steward.  "Mind,  now,  you  watch  and  find 
out  which  hens  don't  lay,  and  kill  them  first.  And  you  ask 
me  each  time  before  you  kill  one." 

I  found  myself  neglected,  out  there  on  top  the  drafty 
house,  while  Miss  West  talked  chickens  with  the  Chinese 
ex-smuggler.  But  it  gave  me  opportunity  to  observe  her. 


THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE         103 

It  is  the  length  of  her  eyes  that  accentuates  their  steadiness 
of  gaze— helped,  of  course,  by  the  dark  brows  and  lashes. 
I  noted  again  the  warm  gray  of  her  eyes.  And  I  began 
to  identify  her,  to  locate  her.  She  is  a  physical  type  of 
the  best  of  the  womanhood  of  old  New  England.  Nothing 
spare  nor  meager,  nor  bred  out,  but  generously  strong, 
and  yet,  not  quite  what  one  would  call  robust.  When  I 
said  she  was  strapping-bodied,  I  erred.  I  must  fall  back 
on  my  other  word,  which  will  have  to  be  the  last:  Miss 
West  is  vital-bodied.  That  is  the  key-word. 

Returning  to  my  use  of  superlatives  in  this  narrative. 
When  we  had  regained  the  poop,  and  Miss  West  had  gone 
below,  I  ventured  my  customary  pleasantry  with  Mr.  Mel- 
laire  of : 

"And  has  0 'Sullivan  bought  Andy  Fay's  sea-boots  yet?" 

"Not  yet.  Mr.  Pathurst,"  was  the  reply,  "though  he 
nearly  got  them  early  this  morning.  Come  on  along,  sir, 
and  I  '11  show  you. ' ' 

Vouchsafing  no  further  information,  the  second  mate  led 
the  way  along  the  bridge,  across  the  'midship  house  and  the 
for'ard  house.  From  the  edge  of  the  latter,  looking  down 
on  Number  One  hatch,  I  saw  two  Japanese,  with  sail- 
needles  and  twine,  sewing  up  a  canvas-swathed  bundle  that 
unmistakably  contained  a  human  body. 

' '  0  'Sullivan  used  a  razor, ' '  said  Mr.  Mellaire. 

"And  that  is  Andy  Fay?"  I  cried. 

"No,  sir,  not  Andy.  That's  a  Dutchman.  Christian 
Jespersen  was  his  name  on  the  articles.  He  got  in  O 'Sul 
livan's  way  when  0 'Sullivan  went  after  the  boots.  That's 
what  saved  Andy.  Andy  was  more  active.  Jespersen 
couldn't  get  out  of  his  own  way,  much  less  out  of  O 'Sul 
livan  's.  There 's  Andy  sitting  over  there. ' ' 

I  followed  Mr.  Mellaire 's  gaze,  and  saw  the  burnt-out, 
aged  little  Scotchman  squatted  on  a  spare  spar  and  suck 
ing  a  pipe.  One  arm  was  in  a  sling  and  his  head  was 


104        THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOKE 

bandaged.  *  Beside  him  squatted  Mulligan  Jacobs.  They 
were  a  pair.  Both  were  blue-eyed,  and  both  were  malevo 
lent-eyed.  And  they  were  equally  emaciated.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  they  had  discovered  early  in  the  voyage  their 
kinship  of  bitterness.  Andy  Fay,  I  knew,  was  sixty-three 
years  old,  although  he  looked  a  hundred ;  and  Mulligan  Ja 
cobs,  who  was  only  about  fifty,  made  up  for  the  difference 
by  the  furnace-heat  of  hatred  that  burned  in  his  face  and 
eyes.  I  wondered  if  he  sat  beside  the  injured  bitter  one 
in  some  sense  of  sympathy,  or  if  he  were  there  in  order 
to  gloat. 

Around  the  corner  of  the  house  strolled  Shorty,  flinging 
up  to  me  his  inevitable  clown  grin.  One  hand  was  swathed 
in  bandages. 

"Must  have  kept  Mr.  Pike  busy,"  was  my  comment  to 
Mr.  Mellaire. 

"He  was  sewing  up  cripples  about  all  his  watch  from 
four  till  eight. " 

' ( What  ?  "  I  asked.    ' '  Are  there  any  more  ? ' ' 

"One  more,  sir,  a  sheeny.  I  didn't  know  his  name  be 
fore,  but  Mr.  Pike  got  it — Isaac  B.  Chantz.  I  never  saw 
in  all  my  life  at  sea  as  many  sheenies  as  are  on  board  the 
Elsinore  right  now.  Sheenies  don't  take  to  the  sea,  as  a 
rule.  We've  certainly  got  more  than  our  share  of  them. 
Chantz  isn't  badly  hurt,  but  you  ought  to  hear  him  whim 
per." 

"Where's  O 'Sullivan?"  I  inquired. 

' '  In  the  'midship  house  with  Davis,  and  without  a  mark. 
Mr.  Pike  got  into  the  rumpus  and  put  him  to  sleep  with 
one  on  the  jaw.  And  now  he's  lashed  down  and  talking  in 
a  trance.  He's  thrown  the  fear  of  God  into  Davis.  Davis 
is  sitting  up  in  his  bunk  with  a  marlin  spike,  threatening 
to  brain  0 'Sullivan  if  he  starts  to  break  loose,  and  com 
plaining  that  it's  no  way  to  run  a  hospital.  He'd  have 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         105 

padded  cells,  straight  jackets,  night  and  day  mirses,  and 
violent  wards,  I  suppose — and  a  convalescents'  home  in  a 
Queen  Anne  cottage  on  the  poop. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,"  Mr.  Mellaire  sighed.  "This  is  the 
funniest  voyage  and  the  funniest  crew  I've  ever  tackled. 
It's  not  going  to  come  to  a  good  end.  Anybody  can  see 
that  with  half  an  eye.  It'll  be  dead  of  winter  off  the  Horn, 
and  a  fo'c's'le  full  of  lunatics  and  cripples  to  do  the 
work. — Just  take  a  look  at  that  one.  Crazy  as  a  bedbug. 
He 's  likely  to  go  overboard  any  time. ' ' 

I  followed  his  glance,  and  saw  Tony  the  Greek,  the  one 
who  had  sprung  overboard  the  first  day.  He  had  just 
come  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  and,  beyond  one  arm 
in  a  sling,  seemed  in  good  condition.  He  walked  easily 
and  with  strength,  a  testimonial  to  the  virtues  of  Mr. 
Pike's  rough  surgery. 

My  eyes  kept  returning  to  the  canvas-covered  body  of 
Christian  Jespersen,  and  to  the  Japanese  who  sewed  with 
sail  twine  his  sailor's  shroud.  One  of  them  had  his  right 
hand  in  a  huge  wrapping  of  cotton  and  bandage. 

"Did  he  get  hurt,  too?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir.  He's  the  sailmaker.  They're  both  sailmakers. 
He's  a  good  one,  too.  Yatsuda  is  his  name.  But  he's  just 
had  blood-poisoning  and  lain  in  hospital  in  New  York  for 
eighteen  months.  He  flatly  refused  to  let  them  amputate. 
He's  all  right  now,  but  the  hand  is  dead,  all  except  the 
thumb  and  forefinger,  and  he's  teaching  himself  to  sew 
with  his  left  hand.  He's  as  clever  a  sailmaker  as  you'll 
find  at  sea." 

"A  lunatic  and  a  razor  make  a  cruel  combination,"  I 
remarked. 

"It's  put  five  men  out  of  commission,"  Mr.  Mellaire 
sighed.  "There's  0 'Sullivan  himself,  and  Christian  Jes 
persen  gone,  and  Andy  Fay,  and  Shorty,  and  the  sheeny. 


106         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

And  the  voyage  not  started  yet.  And  there's  Lars  with 
the  broken  leg,  and  Davis  laid  off  for  keeps — why,  sir,  well 
soon  be  that  weak  it'll  take  both  watches  to  set  a  stay 
sail." 

Nevertheless,  while  I  talked  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  with 
Mr.  Mellaire,  I  was  shocked — no,  not  because  death  was 
aboard  with  us.  I  have  stood  by  my  philosophic  guns  too 
long  to  be  shocked  by  death,  or  by  murder.  What  af 
fected  me  was  the  utter,  stupid  bestiality  of  the  affair. 
Even  murder — murder  for  cause — I  can  understand.  It 
is  comprehensible  that  men  should  kill  one  another  in  the 
passion  of  love,  of  hatred,  of  patriotism,  of  religion.  But 
this  was  different.  Here  was  killing  without  cause,  an 
orgy  of  blind-brutishness,  a  thing  monstrously  irrational. 

Later  on,  strolling  with  Possum  on  the  main  deck,  as  I 
passed  the  open  door  of  the  hospital  I  heard  the  muttering 
chant  of  0 'Sullivan,  and  peeped  in.  There  he  lay,  lashed 
fast  on  his  back  in  the  lower  blunk,  rolling  his  eyes  and 
raving.  In  the  top  bunk,  directly  above,  lay  Charles  Davis, 
calmly  smoking  a  pipe.  I  looked  for  the  marlin  spike. 
There  it  was,  ready  to  hand,  on  the  bedding  beside  him. 

"It's  hell,  ain't  it,  sir?"  was  his  greeting.  "And  how 
am  I  goin'  to  get  any  sleep  with  that  baboon  chattering 
away  there  ?  He  never  lets  up — keeps  his  chin-music  goin ' 
right  along  when  he 's  asleep,  only  worse.  The  way  he  grits 
his  teeth  is  something  awful.  Now  I  leave  it  to  you,  sir, 
is  it  right  to  put  a  crazy  like  that  in  with  a  sick  man? 
And  I  am  a  sick  man." 

While  he  talked,  the  massive  form  of  Mr.  Pike  loomed 
beside  me  and  halted  just  out  of  sight  of  the  man  in  the 
bunk.  And  the  man  talked  on. 

"By  rights,  I  oughta  have  that  lower  bunk.  It  hurts 
me  to  crawl  up  here.  It's  inhumanity,  that's  what  it  is, 
and  sailors  at  sea  are  better  protected  by  the  law  than 


THE   MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         107 

they  used  to  be.  And  I'll  have  you  for  a  witness  to  this 
before  the  court  when  we  get  to  Seattle. ' ' 

Mr.  Pike  stepped  into  the  doorway. 

"Shut  up,  you  damned  sea  lawyer,  you!''  he  snarled. 
"Haven't  you  played  a  dirty  trick  enough  comin'  on 
board  this  ship  in  your  condition?  And  if  I  have  any 
thing  more  out  of  you " 

Mr.  Pike  was  so  angry  that  he  could  not  complete  the 
threat.  After  spluttering  for  a  moment,  he  made  a  fresh 
attempt. 

"You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  well,  you  annoy  me,  that's  what 
you  do." 

"I  know  the  law,  sir,"  Davis  answered  promptly.  "I 
worked  full  able  seaman  on  this  here  ship.  All  hands  can 
testify  to  that.  I  was  aloft  from  the  start.  Yes,  sir,  and 
up  to  my  neck  in  salt  water  day  and  night.  And  you 
had  me  below  trimmin'  coal.  I  did  full  duty  and  more, 
until  this  sickness  got  me " 

"You  were  petrified  and  rotten  before  you  ever  saw 
this  ship,"  Mr.  Pike  broke  in. 

"The  court '11  decide  that,  sir,"  replied  the  impertur 
bable  Davis. 

' '  And  if  you  go  to  shootin '  off  your  sea-lawyer  mouth, ' ' 
Mr.  Pike  continued,  "I'll  jerk  you  out  of  that  and  show 
you  what  real  work  is." 

"An'  lay  the  owners  open  for  lovely  damages  when  we 
get  in,"  Davis  sneered. 

"Not  if  I  bury  you  before  we  get  in,"  was  the  mate's 
quick,  grim  retort.  * '  And  let  me  tell  you,  Davis,  you  ain  't 
the  first  sea  lawyer  I've  dropped  over  the  side  with  a  sack 
of  coal  to  his  feet." 

Mr.  Pike  turned,  with  a  final  "Damned  sea  lawyer!" 
and  started  along  the  deck.  I  was  walking  behind  him 
when  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"Mr.  Pathurst." 


108         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Not  as  an  officer  to  a  passenger  did  he  thus  address  me. 
His  tone  was  imperative,  and  I  gave  heed. 

"Mr.  Pathurst.  From  now  on  the  less  you  see  aboard 
this  ship  the  better.  That  is  all." 

And  again  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  his  way. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

No,  the  sea  is  not  a  gentle  place.  It  must  be  the  very 
hardness  of  the  life  that  makes  all  sea  people  hard.  Of 
course,  Captain  West  is  unaware  that  his  crew  exists,  and 
Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire  never  address  the  men  save  to 
give  commands.  But  Miss  West,  who  is  more  like  myself, 
a  passenger,  ignores  the  men.  She  does  not  even  say  good 
morning  to  the  man  at  the  wheel  when  she  first  comes  on 
deck.  Nevertheless,  I  shall,  at  least  to  the  man  at  the 
wheel.  Am  I  not  a  passenger? 

Which  reminds  me.  Technically  I  am  not  a  passenger. 
The  Elsinore  has  no  license  to  carry  passengers,  and  I  am 
down  on  the  articles  as  third  mate,  and  am  supposed  to 
receive  thirty-five  dollars  a  month.  Wada  is  down  as  cabin 
boy,  although  I  paid  a  good  price  for  his  passage  and  he 
is  my  servant. 

Not  much  time  is  lost  at  sea  in  getting  rid  of  the  dead. 
Within  an  hour  after  I  had  watched  the  sailmakers  at 
work,  Christian  Jespersen  was  slid  overboard,  feet  first,  a 
sack  of  coal  to  his  feet  to  sink  him.  It  was  a  mild,  calm 
day,  and  the  Elsinore,  logging  a  lazy  two  knots,  was  not 
hove  to  for  the  occasion.  At  the  last  moment  Captain 
West  came  for'ard,  prayer  book  in  hand,  read  the  brief 
service  for  burial  at  sea,  and  returned  immediately  aft. 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  him  forward. 

I  shall  not  bother  to  describe  the  burial.  All  I  shall  say 
of  it  is  that  it  was  as  sordid  as  Christian  Jespersen 's  life 
had  been  and  as  his  death  had  been. 

As  for  Miss  West,  she  sat  in  a  deck  chair  on  the  poop, 
busily  engaged  with  some  sort  of  fancy  work.  When 
Christian  Jespersen  and  his  coal  splashed  into  the  sea,  the 

109 


110         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

crew  immediately  dispersed,  the  watch,  below  going  to  its 
bunks,  the  watch  on  deck  to  its  work.  Not  a  minute 
elapsed  ere  Mr.  Mellaire  was  giving  orders  and  the  men 
were  pulling  and  hauling.  So  I  returned  to  the  poop  to 
be  unpleasantly  impressed  by  Miss  West's  smiling  un 
concern. 

'/Well,  he's  buried,"  I  observed. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  with  all  the  tonelessness  of  disinterest, 
and  went  on  with  her  stitching. 

She  must  have  sensed  my  frame  of  mind,  for,  after  a 
moment,  she  paused  from  her  sewing  and  looked  at  me. 

"Your  first  sea  funeral,  Mr.  Pathurst?" 

"Death  at  sea  does  not  seem  to  affect  you,"  I  said 
bluntly. 

"Not  any  more  than  on  the  land."  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "So  many  people  die,  you  know.  And  when 
they  are  strangers  to  you  .  .  .  well,  what  do  you  do  on 
the  land  when  you  learn  that  some  workers  have  been 
killed  in  a  factory  you  pass  every  day  coming  to  town? 
It  is  the  same  on  the  sea." 

"It's  too  bad  we  are  a  hand  short,"  I  said  deliberately. 

It  did  not  miss  her.     Just  as  deliberately  she  replied : 

"Yes,  isn't  it?     And  so  early  in  the  voyage,  too." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  when  I  could  not  forbear  a  smile 
of  appreciation  she  smiled  back. 

"Oh,  I  know  very  well,  Mr.  Pathurst,  that  you  think 
me  a  heartless  wretch.  But  it  isn't  that;  it's  ...  it's 
the  sea,  I  suppose.  And  yet,  I  didn't  know  this  man.  I 
don't  remember  ever  having  seen  him.  At  this  stage  of 
the  voyage  I  doubt  if  I  could  pick  out  half  a  dozen  of 
the  sailors  as  men  I  had  ever  laid  eyes  on.  So  why  vex 
myself  with  even  thinking  of  this  stupid  stranger  who  was 
killed  by  another  stupid  stranger?  As  well  might  one  die 
of  grief  with  reading  the  murder  columns  of  the  daily 
papers." 


THE   MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE         111 

"And  yet,  it  seems  somehow  differ ent,"  I  contended. 

"Oh,  you'll  get  used  to  it,"  she  assured  me  cheerfully, 
and  returned  to  her  sewing. 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  read  Moody 's  "Ship  of  Souls," 
but  she  had  not.  I  searched  her  out  further.  She  liked 
Browning,  and  was  especially  fond  of  "The  Ring  and  the 
Book."  This  was  the  key  to  her.  She  cared  only  for 
healthful  literature — for  the  literature  that  exposits  the 
vital  lies  of  life. 

For  instance,  the  mention  of  Schopenhauer  produced 
smiles  and  laughter.  To  her  all  the  philosophers  of  pes 
simism  were  laughable.  The  red  blood  of  her  would  not 
permit  her  to  take  them  seriously.  I  tried  her  out  with 
a  conversation  I  had  had  with  De  Casseres  shortly  before 
leaving  New  York.  De  Casseres,  after  tracing  Jules  de 
Gaultier's  philosophic  genealogy  back  to  Schopenhauer  and 
Nietzsche,  had  concluded  with  the  proposition  that  out  of 
their  two  formulas  de  Gaultier  had  constructed  an  even 
profounder  formula.  The  "  Will- to-Live "  of  the  one,  and 
the  "Will-to-Power"  of  the  other  were,  after  all,  only 
parts  of  De  Gaultier's  supreme  generalization,  the  "Will- 
to-Illusion. ' ' 

I  flatter  myself  that  even  De  Casseres  would  have  been 
pleased  with  the  way  I  repeated  his  argument.  And  when 
I  had  concluded  it  Miss  West  promptly  demanded  if  the 
realists  might  not  be  fooled  by  their  own  phrases  as  often 
and  as  completely  as  were  the  poor  common  mortals  with 
ithe  vital  lies  they  never  questioned. 

And  there  we  were.  An  ordinary  young  woman,  who 
had  never  vexed  her  brains  with  ultimate  problems,  hears 
such  things  stated  for  the  first  time,  and  immediately,  and 
with  a  laugh,  sweeps  them  all  away.  I  doubt  not  that 
De  Casseres  would  have  agreed  with  her. 

*  *  Do  you  believe  in  God  ? "  I  asked  rather  abruptly. 

She  dropped  her  sewing  in  her  lap,  looked  at  me  medi- 


112         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

tatively,  then  gazed  on  and  away  across  the  flashing  sea 
and  up  into  the  azure  dome  of  sky.  And  finally,  with 
true  feminine  evasion,  she  replied: 

' 'My  father  does." 

"But  you?"  I  insisted. 

"I  really  don't  know.  I  don't  bother  my  head  about 
such  things.  I  used  to  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  And  yet 
.  .  .  yes,  surely  I  believe  in  God.  At  times,  when  I  am 
not  thinking  about  it  at  all,  I  am  very  sure,  and  my  faith 
that  all  is  well  is  just  as  strong  as  the  faith  of  your  Jewish 
friend  in  the  phrases  of  the  philosophers.  That's  all  it 
comes  to,  I  suppose,  in  every  case — faith.  But,  as  I  say. 
why  bother?" 

"Ah,  I  have  you  now,  Miss  West!"  I  cried.  "You  are 
a  true  daughter  of  Herodias." 

' ' It  doesn 't  sound  nice, ' '  she  said  with  a  moue". 

"And  it  isn't,"  I  exulted.  "Nevertheless,  it  is  what 
you  are.  It  is  Arthur  Symonds'  poem,  'The  Daughters 
of  Herodias.'  Some  day  I  shall  read  it  to  you,  and  you 
will  answer,  I  know  you  will  answer,  that  you,  too,  have 
looked  often  upon  the  stars." 

We  had  just  got  upon  the  subject  of  music,  of  which  she 
possesses  a  surprisingly  solid  knowledge,  and  she  was  tell 
ing  me  that  Debussy  and  his  school  held  no  particular 
charm  for  her,  when  Possum  set  up  a  wild  yelping. 

The  puppy  had  strayed  for'ard  along  the  bridge  to  the 
'midship  house,  and  had  evidently  been  investigating  the 
chickens  when  his  disaster  came  upon  him.  So  shrill  was 
his  terror  that  we  both  stood  up.  He  was  dashing  along 
the  bridge  toward  us  at  full  speed,  yelping  at  every  jump 
and  continually  turning  his  head  back  in  the  direction 
whence  he  came. 

I  spoke  to  him  and  held  out  my  hand,  and  was  re 
warded  with  a  snap  and  clash  of  teeth  as  he  scuttled  past. 
Still  with  head  turned  back,  he  went  on  along  the  poop. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         113 

Before  I  could  apprehend  his  danger,  Mr.  Pike  and  Miss 
West  were  after  him.  The  mate  was  the  nearer,  and  with 
a  magnificent  leap  gained  the  rail  just  in  time  to  intercept 
Possum,  who  was  blindly  going  overboard  under  the  slender 
railing.  With  a  sort  of  scooping  kick,  Mr.  Pike  sent  the 
animal  rolling  half  across  the  poop.  Howling  and  snap 
ping  more  violently,  Possum  regained  his  feet  and  stag 
gered  on  toward  the  opposite  railing. 

11  Don't  touch  him!"  Mr.  Pike  cried,  as  Miss  West 
showed  her  intention  of  catching  the  crazed  little  animal 
with  her  hands.  "Don't  touch  'm!  He's  got  a  fit." 

But  it  did  not  deter  her.  He  was  halfway  under  the 
railing  when  she  caught  him  up  and  held  him  at  arm's 
length  while  he  howled  and  barked  and  slavered. 

"It's  a  fit,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  as  the  terrier  collapsed  and 
lay  on  the  deck,  jerking  convulsively. 

"Perhaps  a  chicken  pecked  him,"  said  Miss  West.  "At 
any  rate,  get  a  bucket  of  water." 

"Better  let  me  take  him,"  I  volunteered  helplessly,  for 
I  was  unfamiliar  with  fits. 

"No,  it's  all  right,"  she  answered.  "I'll  take  charge  of 
him.  The  cold  water  is  what  he  needs.  He  got  too  close 
to  the  coop,  and  a  peck  on  the  nos3  frightened  him  into 
the  fit." 

1 '  First  time  I  ever  heard  of  a  fit  coming  that  way, ' '  Mr. 
Pike  remarked,  as  he  poured  water  over  the  puppy  under 
Miss  West 's  direction.  "  It 's  just  a  plain  puppy  fit.  They 
all  get  them  at  sea." 

"I  think  it  was  the  sails  that  caused  it,"  I  argued.  "I've 
noticed  that  he  is  very  afraid  of  them.  When  they  flap  he 
crouches  down  in  terror  and  starts  to  run.  You  noticed 
how  he  ran  with  his  head  turned  back  ? ' ' 

"  I  've  seen  dogs  with  fits  do  that  when  there  was  nothing 
to  frighten  them,"  Mr.  Pike  contended. 

"It  was  a  fit,  no  matter  what  caused  it,"  Miss  West 


114        THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

stated  conclusively.  "  Which  means  that  he  has  not  been 
fed  properly.  From  now  on,  I  shall  feed  him.  You  tell 
your  boy  that,  Mr.  Pathurst.  Nobody  is  to  feed  Possum 
anything  without  my  permission." 

At  this  juncture,  Wada  arrived  with  Possum's  little 
sleeping  box,  and  they  prepared  to  take  him  below. 

* '  It  was  splendid  of  you,  Miss  West, ' '  I  said,  ' '  and  rash, 
as  well,  and  I  won't  attempt  to  thank  you.  But  I  tell 
you  what — you  take  him.  He's  your  dog  now." 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  head,  as  I  opened  the  chart- 
house  door  for  her  to  pass. 

"No;  but  I'll  take  care  of  him  for  you.  Now,  don't 
bother  to  come  below.  This  is  my  affair,  and  you  would 
only  be  in  the  way.  Wada  will  help  me." 

And  I  was  rather  surprised,  as  I  returned  to  my  deck 
chair  and  sat  down,  to  find  how  affected  I  was  by  the  little 
episode.  I  remembered,  at  the  first,  that  my  pulse  had 
been  distinctly  accelerated  with  the  excitement  of  what 
had  taken  place.  And  somehow,  as  I  leaned  back  in  my 
chair  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  the  strangeness  of  the  whole 
voyage  vividly  came  to  me.  Miss  West  and  I  talk  phi 
losophy  and  art  on  the  poop  of  a  stately  ship  in  a  circle 
of  flashing  sea,  while  Captain  West  dreams  of  his  far 
home,  and  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire  stand  watch  and 
watch  and  snarl  orders,  and  the  slaves  of  men  pull  and 
haul,  and  Possum  has  fits,  and  Andy  Fay  and  Mulligan 
Jacobs  burn  with  hatred  unconsumable,  and  the  small- 
handed  half-caste  Chinese  cooks  for  all,  and  Sundry  Buy 
ers  perpetually  presses  his  abdomen,  and  0 'Sullivan  raves 
in  the  steel  cell  of  the  'midship  house,  and  Charles  Davis 
lies  above  him,  nursing  a  marlin  spike,  and  Christian  Jes- 
persen,  miles  astern,  is  deep  sunk  in  the  sea  with  a  sack 
of  coal  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

Two  weeks  out  to-day,  on  a  balmy  sea,  under  a  cloud- 
flecked  sky,  and  slipping  an  easy  eight  knots  through  the 
water  to  a  light  easterly  wind.  Captain  West  said  he  was 
almost  convinced  that  it  was  the  northeast  trade.  Also,  I 
have  learned  that  the  Elsinore,  in  order  to  avoid  being 
jammed  down  on  Cape  San  Roque,  on  the  Brazil  coast, 
must  first  fight  eastward  almost  to  the  coast  of  Africa.  On 
occasion,  on  this  traverse,  the  Cape  Verde  Islands  are 
raised.  No  wonder  the  voyage  from  Baltimore  to  Seattle 
is  reckoned  at  eighteen  thousand  miles. 

I  found  Tony,  the  suicidal  Greek,  steering  this  morning 
when  I  came  on  deck.  He  seemed  sensible  enough,  and 
quite  rationally  took  off  his  hat  when  I  said  good  morning 
to  him.  The  sick  men  are  improving  nicely,  with  the  ex 
ceptions  of  Charles  Davis  and  0  'Sullivan.  The  latter  still 
is  lashed  to  his  bunk,  and  Mr.  Pike  has  compelled  Davis  to 
attend  on  him.  As  a  result,  Davis  moves  about  the  deck, 
bringing  food  and  water  from  the  galley  and  grumbling  his 
wrongs  to  every  member  of  the  crew. 

Wada  told  me  a  strange  thing  this  morning.  It  seems 
that  he,  the  steward,  and  the  two  sailmakers  foregather 
each  evening  in  the  cook's  room — all  being  Asiatics — 
where  they  talk  over  ship's  gossip.  They  seem  to  miss 
little,  and  Wada  brings  it  all  to  me.  The  thing  Wada  told 
me  was  the  curious  conduct  of  Mr.  Mellaire.  They  have 
sat  in  judgment  on  him  and  they  do  not  approve  of  his 
intimacy  with  the  three  gangsters  for'ard. 

"But,  Wada,"  I  said,  "he  is  not  that  kind  of  a  man. 

115 


116         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

He  is  very  hard  and  rough  with  all  the  sailors.  He  treats 
them  like  dogs.  You  know  that. ' ' 

"Sure,"  assented  Wada.  "Other  sailors  he  do  that. 
But  those  three  very  bad  men  he  make  good  friends.  Louis 
say  second  mate  belong  aft  like  first  mate  and  captain. 
No  good  for  second  mate  talk  like  friend  with  sailors.  No 
good  for  ship.  Bimeby  trouble.  You  see.  Louis  say  Mr. 
Mellaire  crazy  do  that  kind  funny  business." 

All  of  which,  if  it  were  true,  and  I  saw  no  reason  to 
doubt  it,  led  me  to  inquire.  It  seems  that  the  gangsters, 
Kid  Twist,  Nosey  Murphy,  and  Bert  Rhine,  have  made 
themselves  cocks  of  the  forecastle.  Standing  together,  they 
have  established  a  reign  of  terror  and  are  ruling  the  fore 
castle.  All  their  training  in  New  York  in  ruling  the  slum 
brutes  and  weaklings  in  their  gangs  fits  them  for  the  part. 
As  near  as  I  could  make  out  from  Wada's  tale,  they  first 
began  on  the  two  Italians  in  their  watch,  Guido  Bombini 
and  Mike  Cipriani.  By  means  I  cannot  guess,  they  have 
reduced  these  two  wretches  to  trembling  slaves.  As  an  in 
stance,  the  other  night,  according  to  the  ship 's  gossip,  Bert 
Rhine  made  Bombini  get  out  of  bed  and  fetch  him  a  drink 
of  water. 

Isaac  Chantz  is  likewise  under  their  rule,  though  he  is 
treated  more  kindly.  Herman  Lunkenheimer,  a  good- 
natured  but  simple-minded  dolt  of  a  German,  received  a 
severe  beating  from  the  three  because  he  refused  to  wash 
some  of  Nosey  Murphy's  dirty  garments.  The  two  bosuns 
are  in  fear  of  their  lives  with  this  clique,  which  is  growing ; 
for  Steve  Roberts,  the  ex-cowboy,  and  the  white-slaver, 
Arthur  Deacon,  have  been  admitted  to  it. 

I  am  the  only  one  aft  who  possesses  this  information, 
and  I  confess  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  I  know 
that  Mr.  Pike  would  tell  me  to  mind  my  own  business. 
Mr.  Mellaire  is  out  of  the  question.  And  Captain  West 
hasn't  any  crew.  And  I  fear  Miss  West  would  laugh  at 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         117 

me  for  my  pains.  Besides,  I  understand  that  every  fore 
castle  has  its  bully,  or  group  of  bullies;  so  this  is  merely 
a  forecastle  matter  and  no  concern  of  the  afterguard.  The 
ship's  work  goes  on.  The  only  effect  I  can  conjecture  is 
an  increase  in  the  woes  of  the  unfortunates  who  must  bow 
to  this  petty  tyranny  for'ard. 

— Oh,  and  another  thing  Wada  told  me.  The  gangster 
clique  has  established  its  privilege  of  taking  first  cut  of 
the  salt  beef  in  the  meat  kids.  After  that  the  rest  take 
the  rejected  pieces.  But  I  will  say,  contrary  to  my  ex 
pectations,  the  Elsinore's  forecastle  is  well  found.  The 
men  are  not  on  whack.  They  havo  all  they  want  to  eat. 
A  barrel  of  good  hardtack  stands  always  open  in  the  fore 
castle.  Louis  bakes  fresh  bread  in  quantity  for  the  sailors 
three  times  a  week.  The  variety  of  food  is  excellent,  if  not 
the  quality.  There  is  no  restriction  in  the  amount  of 
water  for  drinking  purposes.  And  I  can  only  say  that  in 
this  good  weather  the  men's  appearance  improves  daily. 

Possum  is  very  sick.  Each  day  he  grows  thinner. 
Scarcely  can  I  call  him  a  perambulating  skeleton,  because 
he  is  too  weak  to  walk.  Each  day,  in  this  delightful 
weather,  Wada,  under  Miss  West's  instructions,  brings  him 
up  in  his  box  and  places  him  out  of  the  wind  on  the  awn- 
inged  poop.  She  has  taken  full  charge  of  the  puppy,  and 
has  him  sleep  in  her  room  each  night.  I  found  her  yester 
day,  in  the  chart-room,  reading  up  the  Elsinore's  medical 
library.  Later  on  she  overhauled  the  medicine  chest.  She 
is  essentially  the  life-giving,  life-conserving  female  of  the 
species.  All  her  ways,  for  herself  and  for  others,  make 
toward  life. 

And  yet — and  this  is  so  curious  it  gives  me  pause,  she 
shows  no  interest  in  the  sick  and  injured  for'ard.  They 
are  to  her  cattle,  or  less  than  cattle.  As  the  life-giver  and 
race-conserver,  I  should  have  imagined  her  a  Lady  Bounti 
ful,  tripping  regularly  into  that  ghastly  steel-walled  hos- 


118         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

pital  room  of  the  'midship  house  and  dispensing  gruel, 
sunshine,  and  even  tracts.  On  the  contrary,  as  with  her 
father,  these  wretched  humans  do  not  exist. 

And  still  again,  when  the  steward  jammed  a  splinter 
under  his  nail,  she  was  greatly  concerned,  and  manipulated 
the  tweezers  and  pulled  it  out.  The  Elsinore  reminds  me 
of  a  slave  plantation  before  the  war ;  and  Miss  West  is  the 
lady  of  the  plantation,  interested  only  in  the  house  slaves. 
The  field  slaves  are  beyond  her  ken  or  consideration,  and 
the  sailors  are  the  Elswore's  field  slaves.  Why,  several 
days  back,  when  Wada  suffered  from  a  severe  head 
ache,  she  was  quite  perturbed,  and  dosed  him  with  aspirin. 
Well,  I  suppose  this  is  all  due  to  her  sea  training.  She 
has  been  trained  hard. 

We  have  the  phonograph  in  the  second  dog  watch  every 
other  evening  in  this  fine  weather.  On  the  alternate 
evenings  this  period  is  Mr.  Pike's  watch  on  deck.  But 
when  it  is  his  evening  below,  even  at  dinner  he  betrays  his 
anticipation  by  an  eagerness  illy  suppressed.  And  yet,  on 
each  such  occasion,  he  punctiliously  waits  until  we  ask  if 
we  are  to  be  favored  with  music.  Then  his  hard-bitten 
face  lights  up,  although  the  lines  remain  hard  as  ever, 
hiding  his  ecstasy,  and  he  remarks  gruffly,  off-handedly, 
that  he  guesses  he  can  play  over  a  few  records.  And  so, 
every  other  evening,  we  watch  this  killer  and  driver,  with 
lacerated  knuckles  and  gorilla  paws,  brushing  and  caress 
ing  his  beloved  discs,  ravished  with  the  music  of  them,  and, 
as  he  told  me  early  in  the  voyage,  at  such  moments  believ 
ing  in  God. 

A  strange  experience  is  this  life  on  the  Elsinore.  I  con 
fess,  while  it  seems  that  I  have  been  here  for  long  months, 
so  familiar  am  I  with  every  detail  of  the  little  round  of 
living  that  I  cannot  orient  myself.  My  mind  continually 
strays  from  things  non-understandable  to  things  incompre- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         119 

hensible — from  our  Samurai  captain  with  the  exquisite  Ga 
briel  voice  that  is  heard  only  in  the  tumult  and  thunder  of 
storm;  on  the  ill-treated  and  feeble-minded  faun  with  the 
bright,  liquid,  pain-filled  eyes;  to  the  three  gangsters  who 
rule  the  forecastle  and  seduce  the  second  mate ;  to  the  per 
petually  muttering  0 'Sullivan  in  the  steel- walled  hole  and 
the  complaining  Davis  nursing  the  marlin  spike  in  the 
upper  bunk;  and  to  Christian  Jespersen  somewhere  adrift 
in  this  vastitude  of  ocean  with  a  coal  sack  at  his  feet.  At 
such  moments  all  the  life  on  the  Elsinore  becomes  as  un 
real  as  life  to  the  philosopher  is  unreal. 

I  am  a  philosopher.  Therefore,  it  is  unreal  to  me.  But 
is  it  unreal  to  Messrs.  Pike  and  Mellaire?  to  the  lunatics 
and  idiots  ?  to  the  rest  of  the  stupid  herd  for  'ard  ?  I  can 
not  help  remembering  a  remark  of  De  Casseres.  It  was 
over  the  wine  in  Moquin's.  Said  he:  ''The  profoundest 
instinct  in  man  is  to  war  against  the  truth ;  that  is,  against 
the  Real.  He  shuns  facts  from  his  infancy.  His  life  is  a 
perpetual  evasion.  Miracle,  chimera  and  to-morrow  keep 
him  alive.  He  lives  on  fiction  and  myth.  It  is  the  Lie 
that  makes  him  free.  Animals  alone  are  given  the  privi 
lege  of  lifting  the  veil  of  Isis ;  men  dare  not.  The  animal, 
awake,  has  no  fictional  escape  from  the  Real  because  he 
has  no  imagination.  Man,  awake,  is  compelled  to  seek  a 
perpetual  escape  into  Hope,  Belief,  Fable,  Art,  God,  So 
cialism,  Immortality,  Alcohol,  Love.  From  Medusa-Truth 
he  makes  an  appeal  to  Maya-Lie." 

Ben  will  agree  that  I  have  quoted  him  fairly.  And  so, 
the  thought  comes  to  me  that  to  all  these  slaves  of  the 
Elsinore  the  Real  is  real  because  they  fictionally  escape  it. 
One  and  all,  they  are  obsessed  with  the  belief  that  they 
are  free  agents.  To  me  the  Real  is  unreal,  because  I  have 
torn  aside  the  veils  of  fiction  and  myth.  My  pristine  fic 
tional  escape  from  the  Real,  making  me  a  philosopher,  has 
bound  me  absolutely  to  the  wheel  of  the  Real.  I,  the  super- 


120         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

realist,  am  the  only  unrealist  on  board  the  Elsinore. 
Therefore,  I,  who  penetrate  it  deepest,  in  the  whole  phe 
nomena  of  living  on  the  Elsinore  see  it  only  as  phan 
tasmagoria. 

Paradoxes?  I  admit  it.  All  deep  thinkers  are  drowned 
in  the  sea  of  contradictions.  But  all  the  others  on  the 
Elsinore,  sheer  surface  swimmers,  keep  afloat  on  this  sea — 
forsooth,  because  they  have  never  dreamed  its  depth.  And 
I  can  easily  imagine  what  Miss  West's  practical,  hard- 
headed  judgment  would  be  on  these  speculations  of  mine. 
After  all,  words  are  traps.  I  don't  know  what  I  know, 
nor  what  I  think  I  think. 

This  I  do  know:  I  cannot  orient  myself.  I  am  the 
maddest  and  most  sea-lost  soul  on  board.  Take  Miss  West. 
I  am  beginning  to  admire  her.  Why,  I  know  not,  unless  it 
be  because  she  is  so  abominably  healthy.  And  yet,  it  is 
this  very  health  of  her,  the  absence  of  any  shred  of  degen 
erative  genius,  that  prevents  her  from  being  great  .  .  . 
for  instance,  in  her  music. 

A  number  of  times,  now,  I  have  come  in  during  the  day 
to  listen  to  her  playing.  The  piano  is  good,  and  her  teach 
ing  has  evidently  been  of  the  best.  To  my  astonishment  I 
learn  that  she  is  a  graduate  of  Bryn  Mawr,  and  that  her 
father  took  a  degree  from  old  Bowdoin  long  ago.  And  yet 
she  lacks  in  her  music. 

Her  touch  is  masterful.  She  has  the  firmness  and  weight 
(without  sharpness  or  pounding)  of  a  man's  playing — the 
strength  and  surety  that  most  women  lack  and  that  some 
women  know  they  lack.  When  she  makes  a  slip  she  is 
ruthless  with  herself,  and  replays  until  the  difficulty  is 
overcome.  And  she  is  quick  to  overcome  it. 

Yes,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  temperament  in  her  work,  but 
there  is  no  sentiment,  no  fire.  When  she  plays  Chopin  she 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         121 

interprets  his  sureness  and  neatness.  She  is  the  master  of 
Chopin's  technique,  but  she  never  walks  where  Chopin 
walks  on  the  heights.  Somehow,  she  stops  short  of  the 
fullness  of  music. 

I  did  like  her  method  with  Brahms,  and  she  was  not 
unwilling,  at  my  suggestion,  to  go  over  and  over  the  Three 
Rhapsodies.  On  the  Third  Intermezzo  she  was  at  her  best, 
and  a  good  best  it  was. 

"You  were  talking  of  Debussy,"  she  remarked.  "I've 
got  some  of  his  stuff  here.  But  I  don't  get  into  it.  I 
don't  understand  it,  and  there  is  no  use  in  trying.  It 
doesn't  seem  altogether  like  real  music  to  me.  It  fails  to 
get  hold  of  me,  just  as  I  fail  to  get  hold  of  it." 

"Yet  you  like  McDowell,"  I  challenged. 

"Y  .  .  .  es, "  she  admitted  grudgingly.  "His  New  Eng 
land  Idyls  and  Fireside  Tales.  And  I  like  that  Finnish 
man's  stuff,  Sibelius,  too,  although  it  seems  to  me  too  soft, 
too  richly  soft,  too  beautiful,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. 
It  seems  to  cloy." 

"What  a  pity,  I  thought,  that  with  that  noble  masculine 
touch  of  hers  she  is  unaware  of  the  deeps  of  music.  Some 
day  I  shall  try  to  get  from  her  just  what  Beethoven,  say, 
and  Chopin,  mean  to  her.  She  has  not  read  Shaw's  "Per 
fect  Wagnerite,"  nor  had  she  ever  heard  of  Nietzsche's 
' '  Case  of  Wagner. ' '  She  likes  Mozart,  and  old  Boccherini, 
and  Leonardo  Leo.  Likewise  she  is  partial  to  Schumann, 
especially  Forest  Scenes.  And  she  played  his  Papillons 
most  brilliantly.  When  I  closed  my  eyes  I  could  have 
sworn  it  wa^  a  man's  fingers  on  the  keys. 

And  yet,  I  must  say  it,  in  the  long  run  her  playing  makes 
me  nervous.  I  am  continually  led  up  to  false  expecta 
tions.  Always  she  seems  just  on  the  verge  of  achieving 
the  big  thing,  the  super-big  thing,  and  always  she  just 
misses  it  by  a  shade.  Just  as  I  am  prepared  for  the  cul- 


122        THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

minating  flash  and  illumination,  I  receive  mere  perfection 
of  technique.  She  is  cold.  She  must  be  cold.  ...  Or 
else,  and  the  theory  is  worth  considering,  she  is  too  healthy. 
I  shall  certainly  read  to  her  "The  Daughters  of  He- 
rodias." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

WAS  there  ever  such  a  voyage!  This  morning,  when  I 
came  on  deck,  I  found  nobody  at  the  wheel.  It  was  a 
startling  sight — the  great  Elsinore,  by  the  wind,  under  an 
Alpine  range  of  canvas,  every  sail  set  from  skysails  to  try 
sails  and  spanker,  slipping  across  the  surface  of  a  mild 
trade  wind  sea,  and  no  hand  at  the  wheel  to  guide  her. 

No  one  was  on  the  poop.  It  was  Mr.  Pike's  watch,  and 
I  strolled  for'ard  along  the  bridge  to  find  him.  He  was 
on  Number  One  hatch,  giving  some  instructions  to  the  sail- 
makers.  I  awaited  my  chance,  until  he  glanced  up  and 
greeted  me. 

"Good  morning,"  I  answered.  "And  what  man  is  at 
the  wheel  now?" 

"That  crazy  Greek,  Tony,"  he  replied. 

"A  month's  wages  to  a  pound  of  tobacco  he  isn't,"  I 
offered. 

Mr.  Pike  looked  at  me  with  quick  sharpness. 

"Who  is  at  the  wheel?" 

"Nobody,"  I  replied. 

And  then  he  exploded  into  action.  The  age-lag  left  his 
massive  frame,  and  he  bounded  aft  along  the  deck  at  a 
speed  no  man  on  board  could  have  exceeded ;  and  I  doubt 
if  very  many  could  have  equaled  it.  He  went  up  the  poop 
ladder  three  steps  at  a  time  and  disappeared  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  wheel  behind  the  charthouse. 

Next  came  a  promptitude  of  bellowed  orders,  and  all 
the  watch  was  slacking  away  after  braces  to  starboard 
and  pulling  on  after  braces  to  port.  I  had  already  learned 
the  maneuver.  Mr.  Pike  was  wearing  ship. 

123 


124         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

As  I  returned  aft  along  the  bridge,  Mr.  Mellaire  and 
the  carpenter  emerged  from  the  cabin  door.  They  had 
been  interrupted  at  breakfast,  for  they  were  wiping  their 
mouths.  Mr.  Pike  came  to  the  break  of  the  poop,  called 
down  instructions  to  the  second  mate,  who  proceeded  for'- 
'ard,  and  ordered  the  carpenter  to  take  the  wheel. 

As  the  Elsinore  swung  around  on  her  heel,  Mr.  Pike  put 
her  on  the  back  tracks  so  as  to  cover  the  water  she  had 
just  crossed  over.  He  lowered  the  glasses  through  which 
he  was  scanning  the  sea  and  pointed  down  the  hatchway 
that  opened  into  the  big  afterroom  beneath.  The  ladder 
was  gone. 

"Must  have  taken  the  lazarette  ladder  with  him,"  said 
Mr.  Pike. 

Captain  West  strolled  out  of  the  chartroom.  He  said 
good  morning  in  his  customary  way,  courteously  to  me  and 
formally  to  the  mate,  and  strolled  on  along  the  poop  to 
the  wheel,  where  he  paused  to  glance  into  the  binnacle. 
Turning,  he  went  on  leisurely  to  the  break  of  the  poop. 
Again  he  came  back  to  us.  Fully  two  minutes  must  have 
elapsed  ere  he  spoke. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Pike?     Man  overboard?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  took  the  lazarette  ladder  along  with  him?"  Cap 
tain  West  queried. 

"Yes,  sir.  It's  the  Greek  that  jumped  over  at  Balti 
more." 

Evidently  the  affair  was  not  serious  enough  for  Captain 
West  to  be  the  Samurai.  He  lighted  a  cigar  and  resumed 
his  stroll.  And  yet  he  had  missed  nothing,  not  even  the 
absence  of  the  ladder. 

Mr.  Pike  sent  lookouts  aloft  to  every  skysail  yard,  and 
the  Elsinore  slipped  along  through  the  smooth  sea.  Miss 
West  came  up  and  stood  beside  me,  searching  the  ocean 
with  her  eyes  while  I  told  her  the  little  I  knew.  She  evi- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         125 

denced  no  excitement,  and  reassured  me  by  telling  me  how 
difficult  it  was  to  lose  a  man  of  Tony's  suicidal  type. 

"Their  madness  always  seems  to  come  upon  them  in 
fine  weather  or  under  safe  circumstances,"  she  smiled, 
"when  a  boat  can  be  lowered  or  a  tug  is  alongside.  And 
sometimes  they  take  life  preservers  with  them,  as  in  this 
case." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  Mr.  Pike  wore  the  Elsinore  around 
and  again  retraced  the  course  she  must  have  been  sailing 
when  the  Greek  went  over.  Captain  West  still  strolled  and 
smoked,  and  Miss  West  made  a  brief  trip  below  to  give 
Wada  forgotten  instructions  about  Possum.  Andy  Fay 
was  called  to  the  wheel,  and  the  carpenter  went  below  to 
finish  his  breakfast. 

It  all  seemed  rather  callous  to  me.  Nobody  was  much 
concerned  for  the  man  who  was  overboard  somewhere  on 
that  lonely  ocean.  And  yet  I  had  to  admit  that  every 
thing  possible  was  being  done  to  find  him.  I  talked  a  little 
with  Mr.  Pike,  and  he  seemed  more  vexed  than  anything 
else.  He  disliked  to  have  the  ship's  work  interrupted  in 
such  fashion. 

Mr.  Mellaire's  attitude  was  different. 

"We  are  short-handed  enough  as  it  is,"  he  told  me, 
when  he  joined  us  on  the  poop.  "We  can't  afford  to  lose 
him  even  if  he  is  crazy.  We  need  him.  He's  a  good 
sailor  most  of  the  time." 

The  hail  came  from  the  mizzen-skysail  yard.  The  Mal 
tese  Cockney  it  was  who  first  sighted  the  man  and  called 
down  the  information.  The  mate,  looking  to  windward, 
suddenly  lowered  his  glasses,  rubbed  his  eyes  in  a  puzzled 
way,  and  looked  again.  Then  Miss  West,  using  another 
pair  of  glasses,  cried  out  in  surprise  and  began  to  laugh. 

'  *  What  do  you  make  of  it,  Miss  West  ? ' '  the  mate  asked. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  be  in  the  water.  He's  standing 
up." 


126         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Mr.  Pike  nodded. 

1 '  He 's  on  the  ladder, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  'd  forgotten  that.  It 
fooled  me  at  first.  I  couldn't  understand  it."  He  turned 
to  the  second  mate.  "Mr.  Mellaire,  will  you  launch  the 
long  boat  and  get  some  kind  of  a  crew  into  it  while  I  back 
the  main  yard?  I'll  go  in  the  boat.  Pick  men  that  can 
pull  an  oar." 

"You  go,  too,"  Miss  West  said  to  me.  "It  will  be  an 
opportunity  to  get  outside  the  Elsinore  and  see  her  under 
full  sail." 

Mr.  Pike  nodded  consent,  so  I  went  along,  sitting  near 
him  in  the  sternsheets  where  he  steered,  while  half  a  dozen 
hands  rowed  us  toward  the  suicide  who  stood  so  weirdly 
upon  the  surface  of  the  sea.  The  Maltese  Cockney  pulled 
the  stroke  oar,  and  among  the  other  five  men  was  one  whose 
name  I  had  but  recently  learned — Ditman  Olansen,  a  Nor 
wegian.  A  good  seaman,  Mr.  Mellaire  had  told  me,  in 
whose  watch  he  was;  a  good  seaman,  but  "crank-eyed." 
When  pressed  for  an  explanation,  Mr.  Mellaire  had  said 
that  he  was  the  sort  of  man  who  flew  into  blind  rages,  and 
that  one  never  could  tell  what  little  thing  would  produce 
such  a  rage.  As  near  as  I  could  grasp  it,  Ditman  Olansen 
was  a  Berserker  type.  Yet,  as  I  watched  him  pulling  in 
good  time  at  his  oar,  his  large  pale-blue  eyes  seemed  al 
most  bovine — the  last  man  in  the  world,  in  my  judgment, 
to  have  a  Berserker  fit. 

As  we  drew  close  to  the  Greek  he  began  to  scream  menac 
ingly  at  us  and  to  brandish  a  sheath-knife.  His  weight 
sank  the  ladder  until  the  water  washed  his  knees,  and  on 
this  submerged  support  he  balanced  himself  with  wild 
writhing  and  outflinging  of  arms.  His  face,  grimacing  like 
a  monkey 's,  was  not  a  pretty  thing  to  look  upon.  And,  as 
he  continued  to  threaten  us  with  the  knife,  I  wondered 
how  the  problem  of  rescuing  him  would  be  solved. 

But  I  should  have  trusted  Mr.  Pike  for  that.     He  re- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         127 

moved  the  boat-stretcher  from  under  the  Maltese  Cockney's 
feet  and  laid  it  close  to  hand  in  the  sternsheets.  Then  he 
had  the  men  reverse  the  boat  and  back  it  upon  the  Greek. 
Dodging  a  sweep  of  the  knife,  Mr.  Pike  awaited  his  chance, 
until  a  passing  wave  lifted  the  boat's  stern  high,  while 
Tony  was  sinking  toward  the  trough.  This  was  the  mo 
ment.  Again  I  was  favored  with  a.  sample  of  the  lightning 
speed  with  which  that  aged  man  of  sixty-nine  could  handle 
his  body.  Timed  precisely,  and  delivered  in  a  flash  and 
with  weight,  the  boat-stretcher  came  down  on  the  Greek's 
head.  The  knife  fell  into  the  sea,  and  the  demented  crea 
ture  collapsed  and  followed  it,  knocked  unconscious.  Mr. 
Pike  scooped  him  out  quite  effortlessly,  it  seemed  to  me, 
and  flung  him  into  the  boat 's  bottom  at  my  feet. 

The  next  moment  the  men  were  bending  to  their  oars 
and  the  mate  was  steering  back  to  the  Elsinore.  It  was  a 
stout  rap  Mr.  Pike  had  administered  with  the  boat- 
stretcher.  Thin  streaks  of  blood  oozed  on  the  damp  plas 
tered  hair  from  the  broken  scalp.  I  could  but  stare  at  the 
lump  of  unconscious  flesh  that  dripped  seawater  at  my 
feet.  A  man,  all  life  and  movement  one  moment,  defying 
the  universe,  reduced  the  next  moment  to  immobility  and 
the  blackness  and  blankness  of  death,  is  always  a  fascinat 
ing  object  for  the  contemplative  eye  of  the  philosopher. 
And  in  this  case  it  had  been  accomplished  so  simply,  by 
means  of  a  stick  of  wood  brought  sharply  in  contact  with 
his  skull. 

If  Tony  the  Greek  be  accounted  an  appearance,  what 
was  he  now? — a  disappearance?  And,  if  so,  whither  had 
he  disappeared?  And  whence  would  he  journey  back  to 
reoccupy  that  body  when  what  we  call  consciousness  re 
turned  to  him?  The  first  word,  much  less  the  last,  of  the 
phenomena  of  personality  and  consciousness  yet  remains 
to  be  uttered  by  the  psychologists. 

Pondering  thus,  I  chanced  to  lift  my  eyes,  and  the  glori- 


128         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

ous  spectacle  of  the  Elsinore  burst  upon  me.  I  had  been 
so  long  on  board,  and  in  board,  of  her  that  I  had  forgotten 
she  was  a  white-painted  ship.  So  low  to  the  water  was  her 
hull,  so  delicate  and  slender,  that  the  tall,  sky-reaching 
spars  and  masts  and  the  hugeness  of  the  spread  of  canvas 
seemed  preposterous  and  impossible,  an  insolent  derision 
of  the  law  of  gravitation.  It  required  effort  to  realize  that 
that  slim  curve  of  hull  inclosed  and  bore  up  from  the  sea 's 
bottom  five  thousand  tons  of  coal.  And  again,  it  seemed  a 
miracle  that  the  mites  of  men  had  conceived  and  con 
structed  so  stately  and  magnificent  an  element-defying 
fabric — mites  of  men,  most  woefully  like  the  Greek  at  my 
feet,  prone  to  precipitation  into  the  blackness  by  means  of 
a  rap  on  the  head  with  a  piece  of  wood. 

Tony  made  a  strangling  noise  in  his  throat,  then  coughed 
and  groaned.  From  somewhere  he  was  reappearing.  I 
noticed  Mr.  Pike  look  at  him  quickly,  as  if  apprehending 
some  recrudescence  of  frenzy  that  would  require  more  boat- 
stretcher.  But  Tony  merely  fluttered  his  big  black  eyes 
open  and  stared  at  me  for  a  long  minute  of  incurious  amaze 
ere  he  closed  them  again. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?"  I  asked  the 
mate. 

"Put  'm  back  to  work,"  was  the  reply.  "It's  all  he's 
good  for,  and  he  ain't  hurt.  Somebody's  got  to  work  this 
ship  around  the  Horn." 

When  we  hoisted  the  boat  on  board  I  found  Miss  West 
had  gone  below.  In  the  chartroom  Captain  West  was 
winding  the  chronometers.  Mr.  Mellaire  had  turned  in  to 
catch  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  ere  his  watch  on  deck  at 
noon.  Mr.  Mellaire,  by  the  way,  as  I  have  forgotten  to 
state,  does  not  sleep  aft.  He  shares  a  room  in  the  'midship 
house  with  Mr.  Pike 's  Nancy. 

Nobody  showed  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  Greek. 
He  was  bundled  out  upon  Number  Two  hatch  like  so  much 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         129 

carrion  and  left  there  unattended  to  recover  consciousness 
as  he  might  elect.  Yes,  and  so  inured  have  I  become  that 
I  make  free  to  admit  I  felt  no  sympathy  for  him  myself. 
My  eyes  were  still  filled  with  the  beauty  of  the  Elsinore. 
One  does  grow  hard  at  sea. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ONE  does  not  mind  the  Trades.  We  have  held  the  North 
east  Trade  for  days  now,  and  the  miles  roll  off  behind  us 
as  the  patent  log  whirls  and  tinkles  on  the  taffrail.  Yes 
terday,  log  and  observation  approximated  a  run  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty-two  miles;  the  day  before  we  ran  two 
hundred  and  forty,  and  the  day  before  that  two  hundred 
and  sixty-one.  But  one  does  not  appreciate  the  force  of 
the  wind.  So  balmy  and  exhilarating  is  it  that  it  is  so 
much  atmospheric  wine.  I  delight  to  open  my  lungs  and 
my  pores  to  it.  Nor  does  it  chill.  At  any  hour  of  the 
night,  while  the  cabin  lies  asleep,  I  break  off  from  my  read 
ing  and  go  up  on  the  poop  in  the  thinnest  of  tropical 
pajamas. 

I  never  knew  before  what  the  trade  wind  was.  And  now 
I  am  infatuated  with  it.  I  stroll  up  and  down  for  an 
hour  at  a  time,  with  whichever  mate  has  the  watch.  Mr. 
Mellaire  is  always  full-garmented,  but  Mr.  Pike,  on  these 
delicious  nights,  stands  his  first  watch  after  midnight  in 
his  pajamas.  He  is  a  fearfully  muscular  man.  Sixty-nine 
years  seem  impossible  when  I  see  his  single,  slimpsy  gar 
ments  pressed  like  fleshings  againt  his  form  and  bulged 
by  heavy  bone  and  huge  muscle.  A  splendid  figure  of  a 
man!  What  he  must  have  been  in  the  heyday  of  youth 
two  score  years  and  more  ago  passes  comprehension. 

The  days,  so  filled  with  simple  routine,  pass  as  in  a 
dream.  Here,  where  time  is  rigidly  measured  and  empha 
sized  by  the  changing  of  the  watches,  where  every  hour 
and  half  hour  is  persistently  brought  to  one 's  notice  by  the 
striking  of  the  ship's  bells  fore  and  aft,  time  ceases.  Days 

130 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         131 

merge  into  days,  and  weeks  slip  into  weeks,  and  I,  for  one, 
can  never  remember  the  day  of  the  week  or  month. 

The  Elsinore  is  never  totally  asleep.  Day  and  night,  al 
ways,  there  are  the  men  on  watch,  the  lookout  on  the  fore 
castle  head,  the  man  at  the  wheel,  and  the  officer  of  the 
deck.  I  lie  reading  in  my  bunk,  which  is  on  the  weather 
side,  and  continually  over  my  head  during  the  long  night 
hours  impact  the  footsteps  of  one  mate  or  the  other,  pacing 
up  and  down,  and,  as  I  well  know,  the  man  himself  is 
forever  peering  for'ard  from  the  break  of  the  poop,  or 
glancing  into  the  binnacle,  or  feeling  and  gauging  the 
weight  and  direction  of  wind  on  his  cheek,  or  watching  the 
cloud-stuff  in  the  sky  adrift  and  a-scud  across  the  stars  and 
the  moon.  Always,  always  there  are  wakeful  eyes  on  the 
Elsinore. 

Last  night,  or  this  morning,  rather,  about  two  o'clock, 
as  I  lay  with  the  printed  page  swimming  drowsily  before 
me,  I  was  aroused  by  an  abrupt  outbreak  of  snarl  from 
Mr.  Pike.  I  located  him  as  at  the  break  of  the  poop ;  and 
the  man  at  whom  he  snarled  was  Larry,  evidently  on  the 
main  deck  beneath  him.  Not  until  Wada  brought  me 
breakfast  did  I  learn  what  had  occurred. 

Larry,  with  his  funny  pug  nose,  his  curiously  flat  and 
twisted  face,  and  his  querulous,  plaintive  chimpanzee  eyes, 
had  been  moved  by  some  unlucky  whim  to  venture  an  inso 
lent  remark  under  the  cover  of  darkness  on  the  main  deck. 
But  Mr.  Pike,  from  above,  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  had 
picked  the  offender  unerringly.  This  was  when  the  ex 
plosion  occurred.  Then  the  unfortunate  Larry,  truly  half- 
devil  and  all  child,  had  waxed  sullen  and  retorted  still 
more  insolently;  and  the  next  he  knew  the  mate,  descend 
ing  upon  him  like  a  hurricane,  had  handcuffed  him  to  the 
mizzen  fiferail. 

I  imagine,  on  Mr.  Pike's  part,  that  this  was  one  for 
Larry  and  at  least  ten  for  Kid  Twist,  Nosey  Murphy,  and 


132         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Bert  Ehine.  I'll  not  be  so  absurd  as  to  say  that  the  mate 
is  afraid  of  these  gangsters.  I  doubt  if  he  has  ever  ex 
perienced  fear.  It  is  not  in  him.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
am  confident  that  he  apprehends  trouble  from  these  men, 
and  that  it  was  for  their  benefit  he  made  this  example 
of  Larry. 

Larry  could  stand  no  more  than  an  hour  in  irons,  at 
which  time  his  stupid  brutishness  overcame  any  fear  he 
might  have  possessed,  because  he  bellowed  out  to  the  poop 
to  come  down  and  loose  him  for  a  fair  fight.  Promptly 
Mr.  Pike  was  there  with  the  key  to  the  handcuffs. — As  if 
Larry  had  the  shred  of  a  chance  against  that  redoubtable 
aged  man !  Wada  reported  that  Larry,  among  other  things, 
had  lost  a  couple  of  front  teeth  and  was  laid  up  in  his 
bunk  for  the  day.  When  I  met  Mr.  Pike  on  deck,  after 
eight  o'clock,  I  glanced  at  his  knuckles.  They  verified 
Wada's  tale. 

I  cannot  help  being  amused  by  the  keen  interest  I  take 
in  little  events  like  the  foregoing.  Not  only  has  time 
ceased,  but  the  world  has  ceased.  Strange  it  is,  when  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  in  all  these  weeks  I  have  received  no 
letter,  no  telephone  call,  no  telegram,  no  visitor.  I  have 
not  been  to  the  play.  I  have  not  read  a  newspaper.  So 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  there  are  no  plays  nor  newspapers. 
All  such  things  have  vanished  with  the  vanished  world. 
All  that  exists  is  the  Elsinore,  with  her  queer  human 
freightage  and  her  cargo  of  coal,  cleaving  a  rotund  of 
ocean  of  which  the  skyline  is  a  dozen  miles  away. 

I  am  reminded  of  Captain  Scott,  frozen  on  his  south- 
polar  venture,  who  for  ten  months  after  his  death  was 
believed  by  the  world  to  be  alive.  Not  until  the  world 
learned  of  his  death  was  he  anything  but  alive  to  the  world. 
By  the  same  token,  was  he  not  alive?  And  by  the  same 
token,  here  on  the  Elsinore,  has  not  the  land  world  ceased  ? 
May  not  the  pupil  of  one's  eye  be,  not  merely  the  center 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         133 

of  the  world,  but  the  world  itself?  Truly,  it  is  tenable 
that  the  world  exists  only  in  consciousness.  ''The  world 
is  my  idea,"  said  Schopenhauer.  Said  Jules  de  Gaultier, 
"The  world  is  my  invention."  His  dogma  was  that  im 
agination  created  the  Real. — Ah,  me,  I  know  that  the  prac 
tical  Miss  West  would  dub  my  metaphysics  a  depressing 
and  unhealthful  exercise  of  my  wits. 

To-day,  in  our  deck  chairs  on  the  poop,  I  read  "The 
Daughters  of  Herodias"  to  Miss  West.  It  was  superb  in 
its  effect — just  what  I  had  expected  of  her.  She  hem 
stitched  a  fine  white  linen  handkerchief  for  her  father 
while  I  read.  (She  is  never  idle,  being  so  essentially  a 
nest-maker  and  comfort-producer  and  race-conserver ;  and 
she  has  a  whole  pile  of  these  handkerchiefs  for  her  father.) 

She  smiled,  how  shall  I  say? — oh,  incredulously,  trium 
phantly,  oh,  with  all  the  sure  wisdom  of  all  the  generations 
of  women  in  her  warm,  long  gray  eyes,  when  I  read : 

•''But  they  smile  innocently  and  dance  on, 
Having  no  thought  but  this  unslumbering  thought: 
'Am  I  not  beautiful?    Shall  I  not  be  loved?' 
Be  patient,  for  they  will  not  understand, 
Not  till  the  end  of  time  will  they  put  by 
The  weaving  of  slow  steps  about  men's  hearts." 

"But  it  is  well  for  the  world  that  it  is  so,"  was  her 
comment. 

Ah,  Symons  knew  women !  His  perfect  knowledge  she 
attested  when  I  read  that  magnificent  passage : 

"They  do  not  understand  that  in  the  world 
There  grows  between  the  sunlight  and  the  grass 
Anything  save  themselves  desirable. 
Ti;  seems  to  them  that  the  swift  eyes  of  men 
Are  made  but  to  be  mirrors,  not  to  see 
Far-off,  disastrous,  unattainable  things. 
'For  are  not  we,'  they  say,  'the  end  of  all? 
Why  should  you  look  beyond  us?    If  you  look 
Into  the  night,  you  will  find  nothing  there. 
We  also  have  gazed  often  at  the  stars.'  " 


134         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"It  is  true,"  said  Miss  West,  in  the  pause  I  permitted 
in  order  to  see  how  she  had  received  the  thought.  "We 
also  have  gazed  often  at  the  stars. " 

It  was  the  very  thing  I  had  predicted  to  her  face  that 
she  would  say. 

"But  wait,"  I  cried.    "Let  me  read  on."     And  I  read: 

"  'We,  we  alone  among  all  beautiful  things, 
We  only  are  real:  for  the  rest  are  dreams. 
Why  will  you  follow  after  wandering  dreams 
When  we  await  you?    And  you  can  but  dream, 
Of  us,  and  in  our  image  fashion  them. '  ' ' 

"True,  most  true,"  she  murmured,  while  all  uncon 
sciously  pride  and  power  mounted  in  her  eyes. 

"A  wonderful  poem,"  she  conceded — nay,  proclaimed — 
when  I  had  done. 

"But  do  you  not  see "  I  began  impulsively,  then 

abandoned  the  attempt.  For  how  could  she  see,  being 
woman,  the  ' '  far-off,  disastrous,  unattainable  things, ' '  when 
she,  as  she  so  stoutly  averred,  had  gazed  often  on  the  stars  ? 

She!  What  could  she  see,  save  what  all  women  see — 
that  they  only  are  real,  and  that  all  the  rest  are  dreams. 

"I  am  proud  to  be  a  daughter  of  Herodias,"  said  Miss 
West. 

"Well,"  I  admitted  lamely,  "we  agree.  You  remember 
it  is  what  I  told  you  you  were. ' ' 

"I  am  grateful  for  the  compliment,"  she  said;  and  in 
those  long  gray  eyes  of  her  were  limned  and  colored  all  the 
satisfaction,  and  self-certitude,  and  unswerving  compla 
cency  of  power  that  constitute  so  large  a  part  of  the  seduc 
tive  mystery  and  mastery  that  is  possessed  by  woman. 


CHAPTER   XX 

HEAVENS! — how  I  read  in  this  fine  weather.  I  take  so 
little  exercise  that  my  sleep  need  is  very  small;  and  there 
are  so  few  interruptions,  such  as  life  teems  with  on  the 
land,  that  I  read  myself  almost  stupid.  Recommend  me  a 
sea  voyage  any  time  for  a  man  who  is  behind  in  his  read 
ing.  I  am  making  up  years  of  it.  It  is  an  orgy,  a  de 
bauch;  and  I  am  sure  the  addled  sailors  adjudge  me  the 
queerest  creature  on  board. 

At  times  so  fuzzy  do  I  get  from  so  much  reading  that  I 
am  glad  for  any  diversion.  When  we  strike  the  doldrums, 
which  lie  between  the  Northeast  and  the  Southeast  trades, 
I  shall  have  Wada  assemble  my  little  twenty-two  auto 
matic  rifle  and  try  to  learn  how  to  shoot.  I  used  to  shoot 
when  I  was  a  wee  lad.  I  can  remember  dragging  a  shot 
gun  around  with  me  over  the  hills.  Also  I  possessed  an  air- 
rifle,  with  which,  on  great  occasion,  I  was  even  able  to 
slaughter  a  robin. 

While  the  poop  is  quite  large  for  promenading,  the  avail 
able  space  for  deck  chairs  is  limited  to  the  awnings  that 
stretch  across  from  either  side  of  the  charthouse  and  that 
are  of  the  width  of  the  charthouse.  This  space  again  is 
restricted  to  one  side  or  the  other  according  to  the  slant  of 
the  morning  and  afternoon  sun  and  the  freshness  of  the 
breeze.  Wherefore,  Miss  West's  chair  and  mine  are  most 
frequently  side  by  side.  Captain  West  has  a  chair  which 
he  infrequently  occupies.  He  has  so  little  to  do  in  the 
working  of  the  ship,  taking  his  regular  observations  and 
working  them  up  with  such  celerity,  that  he  is  rarely  in 
the  chartroom  for  any  length  of  time.  He  elects  to  spend 

135 


136         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOKE 

his  hours  in  the  main  cabin,  not  reading,  not  doing  any 
thing  save  dream  with  eyes  wide  open  in  the  draught  of 
wind  that  pours  through  the  open  ports  and  door  from 
out  the  huge  crojack  and  the  jigger  staysails. 

Miss  West  is  never  idle.  Below,  in  the  big  after-room, 
she  does  her  own  laundering.  Nor  will  she  let  the  steward 
touch  her  father's  fine  linen.  In  the  main  cabin  she  has 
installed  a  sewing  machine.  All  hand-stitching,  and  em 
broidering,  and  fancy  work  she  does  in  the  deck  chair 
beside  me.  She  avers  that  she  loves  the  sea  and  the  at 
mosphere  of  sea  life,  yet,  verily,  she  has  brought  her  home 
things  and  land  things  along  with  her — even  to  her  pretty 
china  for  afternoon  tea. 

Most  essentially  is  she  the  woman  and  home-maker.  She 
is  a  born  cook.  The  steward  and  Louis  prepare  dishes  ex 
traordinary  and  de  luxe  for  the  cabin  table ;  yet  Miss  West 
is  able  at  a  moment's  notice  to  improve  on  these  dishes. 
She  never  lets  any  of  their  dishes  come  on  the  table  with 
out  first  planning  them  or  passing  on  them.  She  has  quick 
judgment,  an  unerring  taste,  and  is  possessed  of  the  need 
ful  steel  of  decision.  It  seems  she  has  only  to  look  at  a 
dish,  no  matter  who  has  cooked  it,  and  immediately  divine 
its  lack  or  its  surplusage,  and  prescribe  a  treatment  that 
transforms  it  into  something  indescribably  different  and 
delicious. — My,  how  I  do  eat !  I  am  quite  duinfounded  by 
the  unfailing  voracity  of  my  appetite.  Already  am  I  quite 
convinced  that  I  am  glad  Miss  West  is  making  the  voyage. 

She  has  sailed  "out  East,"  as  she  quaintly  calls  it,  and 
has  an  enormous  repertoire  of  tasty,  spicy  Eastern  dishes. 
In  the  cooking  of  rice  Louis  is  a  master,  but  in  the  making 
of  the  accompanying  curry  he  fades  into  a  blundering 
amateur  compared  with  Miss  West.  In  the  matter  of  curry 
she  is  a  sheer  genius. — How  often  one's  thoughts  dwell 
upon  food  when  at  sea ! 

So   in  this  trade-wind  weather  I  see  a  great  deal  of 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         137 

Miss  West.  I  read  all  the  time,  and  quite  a  good  part  of 
the  time  I  read  aloud  to  her  passages,  and  even  books,  with 
which  I  am  interested  in  trying  her  out.  Then,  too,  such 
reading  gives  rise  to  discussions,  and  she  has  not  yet  ut 
tered  anything  that  would  lead  me  to  change  my  first 
judgment  of  her.  She  is  a  genuine  daughter  of  Herodias. 

And  yet  she  is  not  what  one  would  call  a  cute  girl.  She 
isn't  a  girl,  she  is  a  mature  woman  with  all  the  freshness 
of  a  girl.  She  has  the  carriage,  the  attitude  of  mind,  the 
aplomb  of  a  woman,  and  yet  she  cannot  be  described  as 
being  in  the  slightest  degree  stately.  She  is  generous,  de 
pendable,  sensible — yes,  and  sensitive;  and  her  superabun 
dant  vitality,  the  vitality  that  makes  her  walk  so  glori 
ously,  discounts  the  maturity  of  her.  Sometimes  she  seems 
all  of  thirty  to  me;  at  other  times,  when  her  spirits  and 
risibilities  are  aroused,  she  scarcely  seems  thirteen.  I  shall 
make  a  point  of  asking  Captain  "West  the  date  of  the 
Dixie's  collision  with  that  river  steamer  in  San  Francisco 
Bay.  In  a  word,  she  is  the  most  normal,  the  most  healthy 
natural  woman  I  have  ever  known. 

Yes,  and  she  is  feminine,  despite,  no  matter  how  she  does 
her  hair,  that  it  is  as  invariably  smooth  and  well-groomed 
as  all  the  rest  of  her.  On -the  other  hand,  this  perpetual 
well-groomedness  is  relieved  by  the  latitude  of  dress  she 
allows  herself.  She  never  fails  of  being  a  woman.  Her 
sex,  and  the  lure  of  it,  is  ever  present.  Possibly  she  may 
possess  high  collars,  but  I  have  never  seen  her  in  one  on 
board.  Her  waists  are  always  open  at  the  throat,  disclos 
ing  one  of  her  choicest  assets,  the  muscular,  adequate  neck, 
with  its  fine-textured  garment  of  skin.  I  embarrass  my 
self  by  stealing  long  glances  at  that  bare  throat  of  hers 
and  at  the  hint  of  fine,  firm-surfaced  shoulder. 

Visiting  the  chickens  has  developed  into  a  regular  func 
tion.  At  least  once  each  day  we  make  the  journey  for- 
'ard  along  the  bridge  to  the  top  of  the  'midship  house. 


138         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Possum,  who  is  now  convalescent,  accompanies  us.  The 
steward  makes  a  point  of  being  there  so  as  to  receive  in 
structions  and  report  the  egg  output  and  laying-conduct 
of  the  many  hens.  At  the  present  time  our  four  dozen 
hens  are  laying  two  dozen  eggs  a  day,  with  which  record 
Miss  West  is  greatly  elated. 

Already  she  has  given  names  to  most  of  them.  The  cock 
is  Peter,  of  course.  A  much  speckled  hen  is  Dolly  Varden. 
A  slim,  trim  thing  that  dogs  Peter's  heels  she  calls  Cleo 
patra.  Another  hen — the  mellowest-voiced  one  of  all — 
she  addresses  as  Bernhardt.  One  thing  I  have  noted: 
whenever  she  and  the  steward  have  passed  death  sentence 
on  a  non-laying  hen  (which  occurs  regularly  once  a  week), 
she  takes  no  part  in  the  eating  of  the  meat,  not  even  when 
it  is  metamorphosed  into  one  of  her  delectable  curries.  At 
such  times  she  has  a  special  curry  made  for  herself  of 
tinned  lobster,  or  shrimp,  or  tinned  chicken. 

Ah,  I  must  not  forget.  I  have  learned  that  it  was  no 
man-interest  (in  me,  if  you  please)  that  brought  about  her 
sudden  interest  to  come  on  the  voyage.  It  was  for  her 
father  that  she  came.  Something  is  the  matter  with  Cap 
tain  West.  At  rare  moments  I  have  observed  her  gazing  at 
him  with  a  world  of  solicitude  and  anxiety  In  her  eyes. 

I  was  telling  an  amusing  story  at  table  yesterday  mid 
day  when  my  glance  chanced  to  rest  upon  Miss  West.  She 
was  not  listening.  Her  food  on  her  fork  was  suspended  in 
the  air  a  sheer  instant  as  she  looked  at  her  father  with  all 
her  eyes.  It  was  a  stare  of  fear.  She  realized  that  I  was 
observing,  and,  with  superb  control,  slowly,  quite  natu 
rally,  she  lowered  the  fork  and  rested  it  on  her  plate,  re 
taining  her  hold  on  it  and  retaining  her  father's  face  in 
her  look. 

But  I  had  seen.  Yes ;  I  had  seen  more  than  that.  I  had 
seen  Captain  West's  face  a  transparent  white,  while  his 
eyelids  fluttered  down  and  his  lips  moved  noiselessly.  Then 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         139 

the  eyelids  raised,  the  lips  set  again  with  their  habitual 
discipline,  and  the  color  slowly  returned  to  his  face.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  been  away  for  a  time  and  just  returned. 
But  I  had  seen,  and  guessed  her  secret. 

And  yet  it  was  this  same  Captain  West,  seven  hours 
later,  who  chastened  the  proud  sailor  spirit  of  Mr.  Pike. 
It  was  in  the  second  dog-watch  that  evening,  a  dark  night, 
and  the  watch  was  pulling  away  on  the  main  deck.  I  had 
just  come  out  of  the  charthouse  door  and  seen  Captain 
West  pace  by  me,  hands  in  pockets,  toward  the  break  of 
the  poop.  Abruptly,  from  the  mizzenmast,  came  a  snap 
of  breakage  and  crash  of  fabric.  At  the  same  instant  the 
men  fell  backward  and  sprawled  over  the  deck. 

A  moment  of  silence  followed,  and  then  Captain  West's 
voice  went  out: 

"What  carried  away,  Mr.  Pike?" 

' '  The  halyards,  sir, ' '  came  the  reply  out  of  the  darkness. 

There  was  a  pause.  Again  Captain  West's  voice  went 
out. 

"Next  time  slack  away  on  your  sheet  first." 

Now  Mr.  Pike  is  incontestably  a  splendid  seaman.  Yet 
in  this  instance  he  had  been  wrong.  I  have  come  to  know 
him,  and  I  can  well  imagine  the  hurt  to  his  pride.  And 
more — he  has  a  wicked,  resentful,  primitive  nature,  and, 
though  he  answered  respectfully  enough,  ' '  Yes,  sir, ' '  I  felt 
safe  in  predicting  to  myself  that  the  poor  devils  under 
him  would  receive  the  weight  of  his  resentment  in  the  later 
watches  of  the  night. 

They  evidently  did,  for  this  morning  I  noted  a  black  eye 
on  John  Hackey,  a  San  Francisco  hoodlum,  and  Guido 
Bombini  was  carrying  a  freshly  and  outrageously  swollen 
jaw.  I  asked  Wada  about  the  matter,  and  he  soon  brought 
me  the  news.  Quite  a  bit  of  beating  up  takes  place  for'ard 
of  the  deckhouses  in  the  night  watches  while  we  of  the 
afterguard  peacefully  slumber. 


140        THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

Even  to-day  Mr.  Pike  is  going  around  sullen  and  morose, 
snarling  at  the  men  more  than  usual,  and  barely  polite  to 
Miss  West  and  me  when  we  chance  to  address  him.  His 
replies  are  grunted  in  monosyllables,  and  his  face  is  set  in 
superlative  sourness.  Miss  West,  who  is  unaware  of  the 
occurrence,  laughs  and  calls  it  a  "sea  grouch"— a  phe 
nomenon  with  which  she  claims  large  experience. 

But  I  know  Mr.  Pike  now— the  stubborn,  wonderful  old 
seadog.  It  will  be  three  days  before  he  is  himself  again. 
He  takes  a  terrible  pride  in  his  seamanship,  and  what 
hurts  him  most  is  the  knowledge  that  he  was  guilty  of  the 
blunder. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

TO-DAY,  twenty-eight  days  out,  in  the  early  morning 
while  I  was  drinking  my  coffee,  still  carrying  the  north 
east  trade,  we  crossed  the  Line.  And  Charles  Davis  sig 
nalized  the  event  by  murdering  0  'Sullivan.  It  was  Boney, 
the  lanky  splinter  of  a  youth  in  Mr.  Mellaire  's  watch,  who 
brought  the  news.  The  second  mate  and  I  had  just  ar 
rived  in  the  hospital  room,  when  Mr.  Pike  entered. 

0  'Sullivan 's  troubles  were  over.    The  man  in  the  upper 
bunk  had  completed  the  mad,  sad  span  of  his  life  with  the 
marlinspike. 

1  cannot  understand  this  Charles  Davis.     He  sat  up 
calmly  in  his  bunk,  and  calmly  lighted  his  pipe  ere  he 
replied  to  Mr.  Mellaire.     He  certainly  is  not  insane.    Yet 
deliberately,  in  cold  blood,  he  has  murdered  a  helpless  man. 

"What'd  you  do  it  for?"  Mr.  Mellaire  demanded. 

" Because,  sir,"  said  Charles  Davis,  applying  a  second 
match  to  his  pipe,  "because" — puff,  puff — "he  bothered 
my  sleep."  Here  he  caught  Mr.  Pike's  glowering  eye. 
"Because" — puff,  puff — "he  annoyed  me.  The  next  time" 
— puff,  puff — "I  hope  better  judgment  will  be  shown  in 
what  kind  of  a  man  is  put  in  with  me.  Besides" — puff, 
puff — "this  top  bunk  ain't  no  place  for  me.  It  hurts  me 
to  get  into  it" — puff,  puff — "an'  I'm  goin'  back  to  that 
lower  bunk  as  soon  as  you  get  O  'Sullivan  out  of  it. ' ' 

"But  what'd  you  do  it  for?"  Mr.  Pike  snarled. 

'  *  I  told  you,  sir,  because  he  annoyed  me.  I  got  tired  of 
it,  an'  so,  this  morning,  I  just  put  him  out  of  his  misery. 
An'  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?  The  man's  dead, 
ain't  he?  An'  I  killed  'm  in  self-defence.  I  know  the  law. 

141 


142         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

What  right  'd  you  to  put  a  ravin'  lunatic  in  with  me,  an' 
me  sick  an'  helpless?" 

"By  God,  Davis!"  the  mate  burst  forth.  "You'll  never 
draw  your  payday  in  Seattle.  I'll  fix  you  out  for  this, 
killing  a  crazy  lashed  down  in  his  bunk  an'  harmless. 
You'll  follow  'm  overside,  my  hearty." 

"If  I  do,  you'll  hang  for  it,  sir,"  Davis  retorted.  He 
turned  his  cool  eyes  on  me.  "An'  I  call  on  you,  sir,  to 
witness  the  threats  he's  made.  An'  you'll  testify  to  them, 
too,  in  court.  An '  he  '11  hang  as  sure  as  I  go  over  the  side. 
Oh,  I  know  his  record.  He 's  afraid  to  face  a  court  with  it. 
He 's  been  up  too  many  a  time  with  charges  of  man-killin ' 
an'  brutality  on  the  high  seas.  An'  a  man  could  retire 
for  life  an'  live  off  the  interest  of  the  fines  he's  paid,  or 
his  owners  paid  for  him " 

"Shut  your  mouth,  or  I'll  knock  it  out  of  your  face!" 
Mr.  Pike  roared,  springing  toward  him  with  clenched,  up 
raised  fist. 

Davis  involuntarily  shrank  away.  His  flesh  was  weak, 
but  not  so  his  spirit.  He  got  himself  promptly  in  hand 
and  struck  another  match. 

"You  can't  get  my  goat,  sir,"  he  sneered,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  impending  blow.  "I  ain't  scared  to  die. 
A  man's  got  to  die  once  anyway,  an'  it's  none  so  hard  a 
trick  to  do  when  you  can't  help  it.  O 'Sullivan  died  so 
easy  it  was  amazin'.  Besides,  I  ain't  goin'  to  die.  I'm 
goin'  to  finish  this  voyage,  an'  sue  the  owners  when  I  get 
to  Seattle.  I  know  my  rights  an'  the  law.  An'  I  got  wit 
nesses." 

Truly,  I  was  divided  between  admiration  for  the  cour 
age  of  this  wretched  sailor  and  sympathy  for  Mr.  Pike  thus 
bearded  by  a  sick  man  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  strike. 

Nevertheless  he  sprang  upon  the  man  with  calculated 
fury,  gripped  him  between  the  base  of  the  neck  and  the 
shoulders  with  both  gnarled  paws,  and  shook  him  back 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         143 

and  forth,  violently  and  frightfully,  for  a  full  minute.  It 
was  a  wonder  the  man's  neck  was  not  dislocated. 

"I  call  on  you  to  witness,  sir,"  Davis  gasped  at  me  the 
instant  he  was  free. 

He  coughed  and  strangled,  felt  of  his  throat,  and  made 
wry  neck  movements  indicative  of  injury. 

* '  The  marks  '11  begin  to  show  in  a  few  minutes, ' '  he  mur 
mured  complacently  as  his  dizziness  left  him  and  his  breath 
came  back. 

This  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Pike,  who  turned  and  left 
the  room,  growling  and  cursing  incoherently,  deep  in  his 
throat.  When  I  made  my  departure  a  moment  later  Davis 
was  refilling  his  pipe  and  telling  Mr.  Mellaire  that  he'd 
have  him  up  for  a  witness  in  Seattle. 

So  we  have  had  another  burial  at  sea.  Mr.  Pike  was 
vexed  by  it  because  the  Elsinore,  according  to  sea  tradition, 
was  going  too  fast  through  the  water  for  a  proper  cere 
mony.  Thus,  a  few  minutes  of  the  voyage  were  lost  by 
backing  the  Elsinore' s  main  topsail  and  deadening  her  way 
while  the  service  was  read  and  0 'Sullivan  was  slid  over 
board  with  the  inevitable  sack  of  coal  at  his  feet. 

' '  Hope  the  coal  holds  out, ' '  Mr.  Pike  grumbled  morosely 
at  me  five  minutes  later. 

And  we  sit  on  the  poop,  Miss  "West  and  I,  tended  on  by 
servants,  sipping  afternoon  tea,  sewing  fancy  work,  dis 
cussing  philosophy  and  art,  while  a  few  feet  away  from 
us,  on  this  tiny  floating  world,  all  the  grimy,  sordid  trag 
edy  of  sordid,  malformed,  brutish  life  plays  itself  out. 
And  Captain  West,  remote,  untroubled,  sits  dreaming  in 
the  twilight  cabin  while  the  draft  of  wind  from  the  cro- 
jack  blows  upon  him  through  the  open  ports.  He  has  no 
doubts,  no  worries.  He  believes  in  God.  All  is  settled  and 
clear  and  well  as  he  nears  his  far  home.  His  serenity  is 


144         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

vast  and  enviable.  But  I  cannot  shake  from  my  eyes  that 
vision  of  him  when  life  forsook  his  veins,  and  his  mouth 
slacked,  and  his  eyelids  closed,  while  his  face  took  on  the 
white  transparency  of  death. 

I  wonder  who  will  be  the  next  to  finish  the  game  and 
depart  with  a  sack  of  coal. 

' '  Oh,  this  is  nothing,  sir, ' '  Mr.  Mellaire  remarked  to  me 
cheerfully,  as  we  strolled  the  poop  during  the  first  watch. 
"I  was  once  on  a  voyage  on  a  tramp  steamer  loaded  with 
four  hundred  Chinks — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — Chinese. 
They  were  coolies,  contract  laborers,  coming  back  from 
serving  their  time. 

"And  the  cholera  broke  out.  We  hove  over  three  hun 
dred  of  them  overboard,  sir,  along  with  both  bosuns,  most' 
of  the  Lascar  crew,  and  the  captain,  the  mate,  the  third 
mate,  and  the  first  and  third  engineers.  The  second  and 
one  white  oiler  was  all  that  was  left  below  and  I  was  in 
command  on  deck,  when  we  made  port.  The  doctors 
wouldn't  come  aboard.  They  made  me  anchor  in  the 
outer  roads  and  told  me  to  heave  out  my  dead.  There  was 
some  tall  buryin'  about  that  time,  Mr.  Pathurst,  and  they 
went  overboard  without  canvas,  coal  or  iron.  They  had  to. 
I  had  nobody  to  help  me,  and  the  Chinks  below  wouldn't 
lift  a  hand. 

"I  had  to  go  down  myself,  drag  the  bodies  onto  the 
slings,  then  climb  on  deck  and  heave  them  up  with  the 
donkey.  And  each  trip  I  took  a  drink.  I  was  pretty 
drunk  when  the  job  was  done." 

"And  you  never  caught  it  yourself?"  I  queried. 

Mr.  Mellaire  held  up  his  left  hand.  I  had  often  noted 
that  the  index  finger  was  missing. 

"That's  all  that  happened  to  me,  sir.  The  old  man'd 
had  a  fox  terrier  like  yours.  And,  after  the  old  man 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE         145 

passed  out,  the  puppy  got  real  chum  my  with  me.  Just  as 
I  was  making  the  hoist  of  the  last  slingload,  what  does  the 
puppy  do  but  jump  on  my  leg  and  sniff  my  hand.  I  turned 
to  pat  him,  and  the  next  I  knew  my  other  hand  had 
slipped  into  the  gears  and  that  finger  wasn't  there  any 
more." 

"  Heavens  I"  I  cried.  "What  abominable  luck  to  come 
through  such  a  terrible  experience  like  that  and  then  lose 
your  finger ! ' ' 

' '  That 's  what  I  thought,  sir, ' '  Mr.  Mellaire  agreed. 

"What  did  you  do?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  just  held  it  up  and  looked  at  it,  and  said,  'My 
goodness  gracious,'  and  took  another  drink." 

"And  you  didn't  get  the  cholera  afterward?" 

"No,  sir.  I  reckon  I  was  so  full  of  alcohol  the  germs 
dropped  dead  before  they  could  get  to  me."  He  con 
sidered  a  moment.  *  *  Candidly,  Mr.  Pathurst,  I  don 't  know 
about  that  alcohol  theory.  The  old  man  and  the  mates  died 
drunk,  and  so  did  the  third  engineer.  But  the  chief  was 
a  teetotaler,  and  he  died,  too." 

Never  again  shall  I  wonder  that  the  sea  is  hard.  I 
walked  apart  from  the  second  mate  and  stared  up  at  the 
magnificent  fabric  of  the  Elsinore  sweeping  and  swaying 
great  blotting  curves  of  darkness  across  the  face  of  the 
starry  sky. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SOMETHING  has  happened.  But  nobody  knows,  either 
fore  or  aft,  except  the  interested  persons,  and  they  will  not 
say  anything.  Yet  the  ship  is  abuzz  with  rumors  and 
guesses. 

This  I  do  know :  Mr.  Pike  has  received  a  fearful  blow  on 
the  head.  At  table,  yesterday,  at  midday,  I  arrived  late, 
and,  passing  behind  his  chair,  I  saw  a  prodigious  lump  on 
top  of  his  head.  When  I  was  seated,  facing  him,  I  noted 
that  his  eyes  seemed  dazed;  yes,  and  I  could  see  pain  in 
them.  He  took  no  part  in  the  conversation,  ate  perfunc 
torily,  behaved  stupidly  at  times,  and  it  was  patent  that  he 
was  controlling  himself  with  an  iron  hand. 

And  nobody  dares  ask  him  what  has  happened.  I  know 
I  don't  dare  ask  him,  and  I  am  a  passenger,  a  privileged 
person.  This  redoubtable  old  sea-relic  has  inspired  me 
with  a  respect  for  him  that  partakes  half  of  timidity  and 
half  of  awe. 

He  acts  as  if  he  were  suffering  from  concussion  of  the 
brain.  His  pain  is  evident,  not  alone  in  his  eyes  and  the 
strained  expression  of  his  face,  but  by  his  conduct  when 
he  thinks  he  is  unobserved.  Last  night,  just  for  a  breath 
of  air  and  a  moment's  gaze  at  the  stars,  I  came  out  of  the 
cabin  door  and  stood  on  the  main  deck  under  the  break  of 
the  poop.  From  directly  over  my  head  came  a  low  and 
persistent  groaning.  My  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  I  re 
treated  into  the  cabin,  came  out  softly  on  the  poop  by  way 
of  the  charthouse,  and  strolled  noiselessly  for'ard  in  my 
slippers.  It  was  Mr.  Pike.  He  was  leaning  collapsed  on 
the  rail,  his  head  resting  on  his  arms.  He  was  giving  voice 

146 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         147 

in  secret  to  the  pain  that  racked  him.  A  dozen  feet  away 
he  could  not  be  heard.  But,  close  to  his  shoulder,  I  could 
hear  his  steady,  smothered  groaning  that  seemed  to  take 
the  form  of  a  chant.  Also,  at  regular  intervals,  he  would 
mutter :  * '  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear. ' ' 
Always  he  repeated  the  phrase  five  times,  then  returned 
to  his  groaning.  I  stole  away  as  silently  as  I  had  come. 

Yet  he  resolutely  stands  his  watches  and  performs  all 
his  duties  of  chief  officer.  Oh,  I  forgot :  Miss  West  dared 
to  quiz  him,  and  he  replied  that  he  had  a  toothache,  and 
that  if  it  didn  't  get  better  he  'd  pull  it  out. 

Wada  cannot  learn  what  has  happened.  There  were  no 
eye-witnesses.  He  says  that  the  Asiatic  clique,  discussing 
the  affair  in  the  cook 's  room,  thinks  the  three  gangsters  are 
responsible.  Bert  Rhine  is  carrying  a  lame  shoulder. 
Nosey  Murphy  is  limping  as  from  some  injury  in  the  hips. 
And  Kid  Twist  has  been  so  badly  beaten  that  he  has  not 
left  his  bunk  for  two  days.  And  that  is  all  the  data  to 
build  on.  The  gangsters  are  as  close-mouthed  as  Mr.  Pike. 
The  Asiatic  clique  has  decided  that  murder  was  attempted 
and  that  all  that  saved  the  mate  was  his  hard  skull. 

Last  evening,  in  the  second  dog  watch,  I  got  another 
proof  that  Captain  "West  is  not  so  oblivious  of  what  goes 
on  aboard  the  Elsinore  as  he  seems.  I  had  gone  for'ard 
along  the  bridge  to  the  mizzenmast,  in  the  shadow  of  which 
I  was  leaning.  From  the  main  deck,  in  the  alleyway  be 
tween  the  'midship  house  and  the  rail,  came  the  voices  of 
Bert  Rhine,  Nosey  Murphy,  and  Mr.  Mellaire.  It  was 
not  ship's  work.  They  were  having  a  friendly,  even  so 
ciable,  chat;  for  their  voices  hummed  genially,  and  now 
and  again  one  or  another  laughed,  and  sometimes  all 
laughed. 

I  remembered  Wada's  reports  on  this  unseamanlike  in 
timacy  of  the  second  mate  with  the  gangsters,  and  tried 
to  make  out  the  nature  of  the  conversation.  But  the 


148         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

gangsters  were  low-voiced,  and  all  I  could  catch  was  the 
tone  of  friendliness  and  good  nature. 

Suddenly,  from  the  poop,  came  Captain  West's  voice. 
It  was  the  voice,  not  of  the  Samurai  riding  the  storm,  but 
of  the  Samurai  calm  and  cold.  It  was  clear,  soft,  and 
mellow  as  the  mellowest  bell  ever  cast  by  Eastern  artificers 
of  old  time  to  call  worshipers  to  prayer.  I  know  I  slightly 
chilled  to  it — it  was  so  exquisitely  sweet  and  yet  as  pas 
sionless  as  the  ring  of  steel  on  a  frosty  night.  And  I  knew 
the  effect  on  the  men  beneath  me  was  electrical.  I  could 
feel  them  stiffen  and  chill  to  it  as  I  had  stiffened  and 
chilled.  And  yet  all  he  said  was: 

"Mr.  Mellaire." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Mellaire,  after  a  moment  of 
tense  silence. 

"Come  aft  here,"  came  Captain  West's  voice. 

I  heard  the  second  mate  move  along  the  deck  beneath 
me  and  stop  at  the  foot  of  the  poop  ladder. 

"Your  place  is  aft  on  the  poop,  Mr.  Mellaire,"  said  the 
cold,  passionless  voice. 

' '  Yes,  sir, ' '  answered  the  second  mate. 

That  was  all.  Not  another  word  was  spoken.  Captain 
West  resumed  his  stroll  on  the  weather  side  of  the  poop, 
and  Mr.  Mellaire,  ascending  the  ladder,  went  to  pacing 
up  and  down  the  lee  side. 

I  continued  along  the  bridge  to  the  forecastle  head  and 
purposely  remained  there  half  an  hour  ere  I  returned  to 
the  cabin  by  way  of  the  main  deck.  Although  I  did  not 
analyze  my  motive,  I  knew  I  did  not  desire  any  one  to 
know  that  I  had  overheard  the  occurrence. 

I  have  made  a  discovery.  Ninety  per  cent,  of  our  crew 
is  brunette.  Aft,  with  the  exception  of  Wada  and  the 
steward,  who  are  our  servants,  we  are  all  blonds.  What 
led  me  to  this  discovery  was  Woodruff 's  * '  Effects  of  Tropi- 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         149 

cal  Light  on  White  Men,"  which  I  am  just  reading.  Major 
'Woodruff's  thesis  is  that  the  white-skinned,  blue-eyed 
Aryan,  born  to  government  and  command,  ever  leaving  his 
primeval,  overcast  and  foggy  home,  ever  commands  and 
governs  the  rest  of  the  world  and  ever  perishes  because  of 
the  too-white  light  he  encounters.  It  is  a  very  tenable 
hypothesis,  and  will  bear  looking  into. 

But  to  return.  Every  one  of  us  who  sits  aft  in  the  high 
place  is  a  blond  Aryan.  For'ard,  leavened  with  a  ten  per 
cent,  of  degenerate  blonds,  the  remaining  ninety  per  cent, 
of  the  slaves  that  toil  for  us  are  brunettes.  They  will  not 
perish.  According  to  Woodruff,  they  will  inherit  the  earth, 
not  because  of  their  capacity  for  mastery  and  govern 
ment,  but  because  of  their  skin-pigmentation  which  enables 
their  tissues  to  resist  the  ravages  of  the  sun. 

And  I  look  at  the  four  of  us  at  table — Captain  West,  his 
daughter,  Mr.  Pike,  and  myself — all  fair-skinned,  blue- 
eyed,  and  perishing,  yet  mastering  and  commanding,  like 
our  fathers  before  us,  to  the  end  of  our  type  on  the  earth. 
Ah,  well,  ours  is  a  lordly  history,  and  though  we  may  be 
doomed  to  pass,  in  our  time  we  shall  have  trod  on  the  faces 
of  all  peoples,  disciplined  them  to  obedience,  taught  them 
government,  and  dwelt  in  the  palaces  we  have  compelled 
them  by  the  weight  of  our  own  right  arms  to  build  for  us. 

The  Elsinore  depicts  this  in  miniature.  The  best  of  the 
food  and  all  spacious  and  beautiful  accommodation  is  ours. 
For'ard  is  a  pigsty  and  a  slave  pen.  As  a  king,  Captain 
West  sits  above  all.  As  a  captain  of  soldiers,  Mr.  Pike 
enforces  his  king's  will.  Miss  West  is  a  princess  of  the 
royal  house.  And  I?  Am  I  not  an  honorable,  noble- 
lineaged  pensioner  on  the  deeds  and  achievements  of  my 
father,  who,  in  his  day,  compelled  thousands  of  the  lesser 
types  to  the  building  of  the  fortune  I  enjoy? 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE  northwest  trade  carried  us  almost  into  the  southeast 
trade,  and  then  left  us  for  several  days  to  roll  and  swelter 
in  the  doldrums.  During  this  time  I  have  discovered  that 
I  have  a  genius  for  rifle-shooting.  Mr.  Pike  swore  I  must 
have  had  long  practice ;  and  I  confess  I  was  myself  startled 
by  the  ease  of  the  thing.  Of  course,  it's  the  knack;  but 
one  must  be  so  made,  I  suppose,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
acquire  the  knack. 

By  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  standing  on  the  heaving  deck 
and  shooting  at  bottles  floating  on  the  rolling  swell,  I  found 
that  I  broke  each  bottle  at  the  first  shot.  The  supply  of 
empty  bottles  giving  out,  Mr.  Pike  was  so  interested  that* 
he  had  the  carpenter  saw  me  a  lot  of  small  square  blocks 
of  hard  wood.  These  were  more  satisfactory.  A  well- 
aimed  shot  threw  them  out  of  the  water  and  spinning  into 
the  air,  and  I  could  use  a  single  block  until  it  had  drifted 
out  of  range.  In  an  hour's  time  I  could,  shooting  quickly 
and  at  short  range,  empty  my  magazine  at  a  block  and  hit 
it  nine  times,  and,  on  occasion,  ten  times,  out  of  eleven. 

I  might  not  have  judged  my  aptitude  as  unusual  had  I 
not  induced  Miss  West  and  Wada  to  try  their  hands. 
Neither  had  luck  like  mine.  I  finally  persuaded  Mr.  Pike, 
and  he  went  behind  the  wheelhouse  so  that  none  of  the  crew 
might  see  how  poor  a  shot  he  was.  He  was  never  able  to 
hit  the  mark,  and  was  guilty  of  the  most  ludicrous  misses. 

"I  never  could  get  the  hang  of  rifle-shooting,"  he  an 
nounced  disgustedly,  "but  when  it  comes  to  close  range 
with  a  gat,  I'm  right  there.  I  guess  I  might  as  well  over 
haul  mine  and  limber  it  up." 

150 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         151 

He  went  below  and  came  back  with  a  huge  .44  automatic 
pistol  and  a  handful  of  loaded  clips. 

"Anywhere  from  right  against  the  body  up  to  ten  or 
twelve  feet  away,  holding  for  the  stomach,  it's  astonish 
ing,  Mr.  Pathurst,  what  you  can  do  with  a  weapon  like 
this.  Now  you  can't  use  a  rifle  in  a  mix-up.  I've  been 
down  and  under,  with  a  bunch  giving  me  the  boot,  when  I 
turned  loose  with  this.  Talk  about  damage!  It  ranged 
them  the  full  length  of  their  bodies.  One  of  them  'd  just 
landed  his  brogans  on  my  face  when  I  let  'm  have  it.  The 
bullet  entered  just  above  his  knee,  smashed  the  collar-bone, 
where  it  came  out,  and  then  clipped  off  an  ear.  I  guess 
that  bullet's  still  going.  It  took  more  than  a  full-sized 
man  to  stop  it.  So  I  say,  give  me  a  good,  handy  gat  when 
something's  doing." 

"Ain't  you  afraid  you'll  use  all  your  ammunition  up?" 
he  asked  anxiously  half  an  hour  later,  as  I  continued  to 
crack  away  with  my  new  toy. 

He  was  quite  reassured  when  I  told  him  Wada  had 
brought  along  fifty  thousand  rounds  for  me. 

In  the  midst  of  the  shooting,  two  sharks  came  swimming 
around.  They  were  quite  large,  Mr.  Pike  said,  and  he  esti 
mated  their  length  at  fifteen  feet.  It  was  Sunday  morning, 
so  that  the  crew,  except  for  working  the  ship,  had  its  time 
to  itself,  and  soon  the  carpenter,  with  a  rope  for  a  fish- 
line  and  a  great  iron  hook  baited  with  a  chunk  of  salt 
pork  the  size  of  my  head,  captured  first  one,  and  then  the 
other,  of  the  monsters.  They  were  hoisted  in  on  the  main 
deck.  And  then  I  saw  a  spectacle  of  the  cruelty  of  the  sea. 

The  full  crew  gathered  about  with  sheath  knives, 
hatchets,  clubs,  and  big  butcher  knives  borrowed  from  the 
galley.  I  shall  not  give  the  details,  save  that  they  gloated 
and  lusted,  and  roared  and  bellowed  their  delight  in  the 
atrocities  they  committed.  Finally,  the  first  of  the  two 
fish  was  thrown  back  into  the  ocean  with  a  pointed  stake 


152         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

thrust  into  its  upper  and  lower  jaws  so  that  it  could  not 
close  its  mouth.  Inevitable  and  prolonged  starvation  was 
the  fate  thus  meted  out  to  it. 

"I'll  show  you  something,  boys,"  Andy  Fay  cried,  as 
they  prepared  to  handle  the  second  shark. 

The  Maltese  Cockney  had  been  a  most  capable  master  of 
ceremonies  with  the  first  one.  More  than  anything  else, 
I  think,  was  I  hardened  against  these  brutes  by  what  I 
saw  them  do.  In  the  end,  the  maltreated  fish  thrashed 
about  the  deck  entirely  eviscerated.  Nothing  remained 
but  the  mere  flesh-shell  of  the  creature,  yet  it  would  not 
die.  It  was  amazing  the  life  that  lingered  when  all  the 
vital  organs  were  gone.  But  more  amazing  things  were  to 
follow. 

Mulligan  Jacobs,  his  arms  a  butcher's  to  the  elbows, 
without  as  much  as  "by  your  leave,"  suddenly  thrust  a 
hunk  of  meat  into  my  hand.  I  sprang  back,  startled,  and 
dropped  it  to  the  deck,  while  a  gleeful  howl  went  up  from 
the  two-score  men.  I  was  shamed,  despite  myself.  These 
brutes  held  me  in  little  respect;  and,  after  all,  human 
nature  is  so  strange  a  compound  that  even  a  philosopher 
dislikes  being  held  in  disesteem  by  the  brutes  of  his  own 
species. 

I  looked  at  what  I  had  dropped.  It  was  the  heart  of  the 
shark,  and  as  I  looked,  there  under  my  eyes,  on  the  scorch 
ing  deck  where  the  pitch  oozed  from  the  seams,  the  heart 
pulsed  with  life. 

And  I  dared.  I  would  not  permit  these  animals  to  laugh 
at  any  fastidiousness  of  mine.  I  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
heart,  and  while  I  concealed  and  conquered  my  qualms  I 
held  it  in  my  hand  and  felt  it  beat  in  my  hand. 

At  any  rate,  I  had  won  a  mild  victory  over  Mulligan 
Jacobs;  for  he  abandoned  me  for  the  more  delectable  diver 
sion  of  torturing  the  shark  that  would  not  die.  For  sev 
eral  minutes  it  had  been  lying  quite  motionless.  Mulligan 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         153 

Jacobs  smote  it  a  heavy  blow  on  the  nose  with  the  flat  of  a 
hatchet,  and  as  the  thing  galvanized  into  life  and  flung  its 
body  about  the  deck  the  little  venomous  man  screamed  in 
ecstasy : 

' '  The  hooks  are  in  it — the  hooks  are  in  it ! — and  burnin ' 
hot!" 

He  squirmed  and  writhed  with  fiendish  delight,  and 
again  he  struck  it  on  the  nose  and  made  it  leap. 

This  was  too  much,  and  I  beat  a  retreat — feigning  bore 
dom,  or  cessation  of  interest,  of  course ;  and  absently  carry 
ing  the  still  throbbing  heart  in  my  hand. 

As  I  came  upon  the  poop,  I  saw  Miss  West,  with  her 
sewing  basket,  emerging  from  the  port  door  of  the  chart- 
house.  The  deck  chairs  were  on  that  side,  so  I  stole  around 
on  the  starboard  side  of  the  chart-house  in  order  to  fling 
overboard  unobserved  the  dreadful  thing  I  carried.  But, 
drying  on  the  surface  in  the  tropic  heat  and  still  pulsing 
inside,  it  stuck  to  my  hand,  so  that  it  was  a  bad  cast.  In 
stead  of  clearing  the  railing,  it  struck  on  the  pin-rail  and 
stuck  there  in  the  shade,  and  as  I  opened  the  door  to  go 
below  and  wash  my  hands,  with  a  last  glance  I  saw  it  pulse 
where  it  had  fallen. 

When  I  came  back  it  was  still  pulsing.  I  heard  a  splash 
overside  from  the  waist  of  the  ship,  and  knew  the  carcass 
had  been  flung  overboard.  I  did  not  go  around  the  chart- 
house  and  join  Miss  West,  but  stood  enthralled  by  the 
spectacle  of  that  heart  that  beat  in  the  tropic  heat. 

Boisterous  shouts  from  the  sailors  attracted  my  atten 
tion.  They  had  all  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  tall  rail  and 
were  watching  something  outboard.  I  followed  their  gaze 
and  saw  the  amazing  thing.  That  long-eviscerated  shark 
was  not  dead.  It  moved,  it  swam,  it  thrashed  about,  and 
ever  it  strove  to  escape  from  the  surface  of  the  ocean. 
Sometimes  it  swam  down  as  deep  as  fifty  or  a  hundred 
feet,  and  then,  still  struggling  to  escape  the  surface,  strug- 


154         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

gled  involuntarily  to  the  surface.  Each  failure  thus  to 
escape  fetched  wild  laughter  from  the  men.  But  why  did 
they  laugh?  The  thing  was  sublime,  horrible,  but  it  was 
not  humorous.  I  leave  it  to  you.  What  is  there  laughable 
in  the  sight  of  a  pain-distraught  fish  rolling  helplessly  on 
the  surface  of  the  sea  and  exposing  to  the  sun  all  its  essen 
tial  emptiness? 

I  was  turning  away,  when  renewed  shouting  drew  my 
gaze.  Half  a  dozen  other  sharks  had  appeared,  smaller 
ones,  nine  or  ten  feet  long.  They  attacked  their  helpless 
comrade.  They  tore  him  to  pieces;  they  destroyed  him, 
devoured  him.  I  saw  the  last  shred  of  him  disappear  down 
their  maws.  He  was  gone,  disintegrated,  entombed  in  the 
living  bodies  of  his  kind  and  already  entering  into  the 
processes  of  digestion.  And  yet,  there,  in  the  shade  on  the 
pin-rail,  that  unbelievable  and  monstrous  heart  beat  on. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  voyage  is  doomed  to  disaster  and  death.  I  know 
Mr.  Pike,  now,  and  if  ever  he  discovers  the  identity  of  Mr. 
Mellaire,  murder  will  be  done.  Mr.  Mellaire  is  not  Mr. 
Mellaire.  He  is  not  from  Georgia.  He  is  from  Virginia. 
His  name  is  Waltham — Sidney  Waltham.  He  is  one  of  the 
"Walthams  of  Virginia,  a  black  sheep,  true,  but  a  Waltham. 
Of  this  I  am  convinced  just  as  utterly  as  I  am  convinced 
that  Mr.  Pike  will  kill  him  if  he  learns  who  he  is. 

Let  me  tell  how  I  have  discovered  all  this.  It  was  last 
night,  shortly  before  midnight,  when  I  came  up  on  the 
poop  to  enjoy  a  whiff  of  the  Southeast  trades  in  which  we 
are  now  bowling  along,  close-hauled  in  order  to  weather 
Cape  San  Koque.  Mr.  Pike  had  the  watch,  and  I  paced  up 
and  down  with  him  while  he  told  me  old  pages  of  his  life. 
He  has  often  done  this,  when  not  "  sea-grouched, "  and 
often  he  has  mentioned  with  pride — yes,  with  reverence — 
a  master  with  whom  he  sailed  five  years.  "Old  Captain 
Somers, ' '  he  called  him — * '  the  finest,  squarest,  noblest  man 
I  ever  sailed  under,  sir." 

"Well,  last  night,  our  talk  turned  on  lugubrious  subjects, 
and  Mr.  Pike,  wicked  old  man  that  he  is,  descanted  on  the 
wickedness  of  the  world  and  on  the  wickedness  of  the  man 
who  had  murdered  Captain  Somers. 

"He  was  an  old  man,  over  seventy  years  old,"  Mr.  Pike 
went  on.  "And  they  say  he'd  got  a  touch  of  palsy — I 
hadn't  seen  him  for  years.  You  see,  I'd  had  to  clear  out 
from  the  Coast  because  of  trouble.  And  that  devil  of  a 
second  mate  caught  him  in  bed  late  at  night  and  beat  him 
to  death.  It  was  terrible.  They  told  me  about  it.  Eight 

155 


156         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

in  San  Francisco,  on  board  the  Jason  Harrison,  it  hap 
pened,  eleven  years  ago. 

' '  And  do  you  know  what  they  did  ?  First,  they  gave  the 
murderer  life,  when  he  should  have  been  hanged.  His  plea 
was  insanity,  from  having  had  his  head  chopped  open  a 
long  time  before  by  a  crazy  sea-cook.  And  when  he'd 
served  seven  years  the  governor  pardoned  him.  He  wasn't 
any  good,  but  his  people  were  a  powerful  old  Virginia 
family,  the  Walthams,  I  guess  you've  heard  of  them;  and 
they  brought  all  kinds  of  pressure  to  bear.  His  name  was 
Sidney  Waltham." 

At  this  moment,  the  warning  bell,  a  single  stroke  fifteen 
minutes  before  the  change  of  watch,  rang  out  from  the 
wheel  and  was  repeated  by  the  lookout  on  the  forecastle 
head.  Mr.  Pike,  under  his  stress  of  feeling,  had  stopped 
walking,  and  we  stood  at  the  break  of  the  poop.  As  chance 
would  have  it,  Mr.  Mellaire  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ahead 
of  time,  and  he  climbed  the  poop  ladder  and  stood  beside 
us  while  the  mate  concluded  his  tale. 

"I  didn't  mind  it,"  Mr.  Pike  continued,  "as  long  as 
he'd  got  life  and  was  serving  his  time.  But  when  they 
pardoned  him  out  after  only  seven  years  I  swore  I'd  get 
him.  And  I  will.  I  don't  believe  in  God  or  devil,  and 
it's  a  rotten  crazy  world  anyway;  but  I  do  believe  in 
hunches.  And  I  know  I'm  going  to  get  him." 

"What  will  you  do?"  I  queried. 

"  Do  ? "  Mr.  Pike 's  voice  was  fraught  with  surprise  that 
I  should  not  know.  "Do?  Well,  what  did  he  do  to  old 
Captain  Somers?  Yet  he's  disappeared  these  last  three 
years  now.  I  've  heard  neither  hide  nor  hair  of  him.  But 
he's  a  sailor,  and  he'll  drift  back  to  the  sea,  and  some 
day  .  .  ." 

In  the  illumination  of  a  match  with  which  the  second 
mate  was  lighting  his  pipe,  I  saw  Mr.  Pike's  gorilla  arms 
and  huge  clenched  paws  raised  to  heaven,  and  his  face 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         157 

convulsed  and  working.  Also,  in  that  brief  moment  of 
light,  I  saw  that  the  second  mate's  hand  which  held  the 
match  was  shaking. 

"And  I  ain't  never  seen  even  a  photo  of  him,"  Mr.  Pike 
added.  * '  But  I  've  got  a  general  idea  of  his  looks,  and  he 's 
got  a  mark  unmistakable.  I  could  know  him  by  it  in  the 
dark.  All  I'd  have  to  do  is  feel  it.  Some  day  I'll  stick 
my  fingers  into  that  mark." 

"What  did  you  say,  sir,  was  the  captain's  name?"  Mr. 
Mellaire  asked  casually. 

"Somers — old  Captain  Somers,"  Mr.  Pike  answered. 

Mr.  Mellaire  repeated  the  name  aloud  several  times,  and 
then  hazarded: 

"Didn't  he  command  the  Lammermoor  thirty  years 
ago?" 

"That's  the  man." 

"I  thought  I  recognized  him.  I  lay  at  anchor  in  a  sliip 
next  to  his  in  Table  Bay  that  time  ago." 

' '  Oh,  the  wickedness  of  the  world,  the  wickedness  of  the 
world,"  Mr.  Pike  muttered  as  he  turned  and  strode  away. 

I  said  good  night  to  the  second  mate  and  had  started  to 
go  below,  when  he  called  to  me  in  a  low  voice,  "Mr. 
Pathurst!" 

I  stopped,  and  then  he  said,  hurriedly  and  confusedly. 

"Never  mind,  sir.  ...  I  beg  your  pardon.  .  .  .  I — I 
changed  my  mind." 

Below,  lying  in  my  bunk,  I  found  myself  unable  to  read. 
My  mind  was  bent  on  returning  to  what  had  just  occurred 
on  deck,  and,  against  my  will,  the  most  grewsome  specula 
tions  kept  suggesting  themselves. 

And  then  came  Mr.  Mellaire.  He  had  slipped  down 
the  booby  hatch  into  the  big  after-room,  and  thence  through 
the  hallway  to  my  room.  He  entered  noiselessly,  on  clumsy 
tiptoes,  and  pressed  his  finger  warningly  to  his  lips.  Not 


158         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

until  he  was  beside  my  bunk  did  he  speak,  and  then  it  was 
in  a  whisper. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  Mr.  Pathurst.  .  .  .  I — I  beg 
your  pardon;  but,  you  see,  sir,  I  was  just  passing,  and 
seeing  you  awake  I  ...  I  thought  it  would  not  incon 
venience  you  to  ...  you  see,  I  thought  I  might  just  as 
well  prefer  a  small  favor  .  .  .  seeing  that  I  would  not  in 
convenience  you,  sir.  ...  I  ...  I  ..." 

I  waited  for  him  to  proceed,  and  in  the  pause  that  en 
sued,  while  he  licked  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue,  the 
thing  ambushed  in  his  skull  peered  at  me  through  his  eyes 
and  seemed  almost  on  the  verge  of  leaping  out  and  pounc 
ing  upon  me. 

''Well,  sir,"  he  began  again,  this  time  more  coherently, 
"it's  just  a  little  thing — foolish  on  my  part,  of  course — 
a  whim,  so  to  say — but  you  will  remember,  near  the  be 
ginning  of  the  voyage,  I  showed  you  a  scar  on  my  head  .  .  . 
a  really  small  affair,  sir,  which  I  contracted  in  a  mis 
adventure.  It  amounts  to  a  deformity,  which  it  is  my 
fancy  to  conceal.  Not  for  worlds,  sir,  would  I  care  to  have 
Miss  West,  for  instance,  know  that  I  carried  such  a  de 
formity.  A  man  is  a  man,  sir — you  understand — and  you 
have  not  spoken  of  it  to  her?" 

"No,"  I  replied.    "It  just  happens  that  I  have  not." 

"Nor  to  anbody  else? — to,  say,  Captain  West? — or,  say, 
Mr.  Pike?" 

"No,  I  haven't  mentioned  it  to  anybody,"  I  averred. 

He  could  not  conceal  the  relief  he  experienced.  The 
perturbation  went  out  of  his  face  and  manner,  and  the 
ambushed  thing  drew  back  deeper  into  the  recess  of  his 
skull. 

"The  favor,  sir,  Mr.  Pathurst,  that  I  would  prefer  is 
that  you  will  not  mention  that  little  matter  to  anybody. 
I  suppose"  (he  smiled,  and  his  voice  was  superlatively 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         159 

suave)  "it  is  vanity  on  my  part — you  understand,  I  am 
sure. ' ' 

I  nodded,  and  made  a  restless  movement  with  my  book 
as  evidence  that  I  desired  to  resume  my  reading. 

"I  can  depend  upon  you  for  that,  Mr.  Pathurst?" 

His  whole  voice  and  manner  had  changed.  It  was  prac 
tically  a  command,  and  I  could  almost  see  fangs,  bared 
and  menacing,  sprouting  in  the  jaws  of  that  thing  I  fancied 
dwelt  behind  his  eyes. 

"  Certainly, ' '  I  answered  coldly. 

"Thank  you,  sir — I  thank  you/'  he  said,  and,  without 
more  ado,  tiptoed  from  the  room. 

Of  course  I  did  not  read.  How  could  I?  Nor  did  I 
sleep.  My  mind  ran  on,  and  on,  and  not  until  the  steward 
brought  my  coffee,  shortly  before  five,  did  I  sink  into  my 
first  doze. 

One  thing  is  very  evident.  Mr.  Pike  does  not  dream 
that  the  murderer  of  Captain  Somers  is  on  board  the 
Elsinore.  He  has  never  glimpsed  that  prodigious  fissure 
that  clefts  Mr.  Mellaire's,  or,  rather,  Sidney  Waltham's, 
skull.  And  I,  for  one,  shall  never  tell  Mr.  Pike.  And  I 
know,  now,  why  from  the  very  first  I  disliked  the  second 
mate.  And  I  understand  that  live  thing,  that  other  thing, 
that  lurks  within  and  peers  out  through  the  eyes.  I  have 
recognized  the  same  thing  in  the  three  gangsters  for'ard. 
Like  the  second  mate,  they  are  prison  birds.  The  restraint, 
and  secrecy,  and  iron  control  of  prison  life  have  developed 
in  all  of  them  terrible  other  selves. 

Yes,  and  another  thing  is  very  evident.  On  board  this 
ship,  driving  now  through  the  South  Atlantic  for  the 
winter  passage  of  Cape  Horn,  are  all  the  elements  of  sea 
tragedy  and  horror.  "We  are  freighted  with  human  dyna 
mite  that  is  liable  at  any  moment  to  blow  our  tiny  floating 
world  to  fragments. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  days  slip  by.  The  Southeast  trade  is  brisk,  and 
small  splashes  of  sea  occasionally  invade  my  open  ports. 
Mr.  Pike's  room  was  soaked  yesterday.  This  is  the  most 
exciting  thing  that  has  happened  for  some  time.  The 
gangsters  rule  in  the  forecastle.  Larry  and  Shorty  have 
had  a  harmless  fight.  The  hooks  continue  to  burn  in  Mulli 
gan  Jacobs'  brain.  Charles  Davis  resides  alone  in  his 
little  steel  room,  coming  out  only  to  get  his  food  from 
the  galley.  Miss  West  plays  and  sings,  doctors  Possum, 
launders,  and  is  forever  otherwise  busy  with  her  fancy 
work.  Mr.  Pike  runs  the  phonograph  every  other  evening 
in  the  second  dog-watch.  Mr.  Mellaire  hides  the  cleft  in 
his  head.  I  keep  his  secret.  And  Captain  West,  more  re 
mote  than  ever,  sits  in  the  draft  of  wind  in  the  twilight 
cabin. 

We  are  now  thirty-seven  days  at  sea,  in  which  time, 
until  to-day,  we  have  not  sighted  a  vessel.  And  to-day,  at 
one  time,  no  less  than  six  vessels  were  visible  from  the 
deck.  Not  until  I  saw  these  ships  was  I  able  thoroughly 
to  realize  how  lonely  this  ocean  is. 

Mr.  Pike  tells  me  we  are  several  hundred  miles  off  the 
South  American  coast.  And  yet,  only  the  other  day,  it 
seems,  we  were  scarcely  more  distant  from  Africa.  A  big 
velvety  moth  fluttered  aboard  this  morning,  and  we  are 
filled  with  conjecture.  How  possibly  could  it  have  come 
from  the  South  American  coast  these  hundreds  of  miles 
in  the  teeth  of  the  trades? 

The  Southern  Cross  has  been  visible,  of  course,  for 

160 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         161 

weeks;  the  North  -Star  has  disappeared  behind  the  bulge 
of  the  earth;  and  the  Great  Bear,  at  its  highest,  is  very 
low.  Soon,  it,  too,  will  be  gone,  and  we  shall  be  raising 
the  Magellan  Clouds. 

I  remember  the  fight  between  Larry  and  Shorty.  Wada 
reports  that  Mr.  Pike  watched  it  for  some  time,  until,  be 
coming  incensed  at  their  awkwardness,  he  clouted  both  of 
them  with  his  open  hands  and  made  them  stop,  announc 
ing  that  until  they  could  make  a  better  showing  he  intended 
doing  all  the  fighting  on  the  Elsinore  himself. 

It  is  a  feat  beyond  me  to  realize  that  he  is  sixty-nine 
years  old.  And  when  I  look  at  the  tremendous  build  of 
him  and  at  his  fearful,  man-handling  hands,  I  conjure  up 
a  vision  of  him  avenging  Captain  Somers'  murder. 

Life  is  cruel.  Among  the  Elsinore' 's  five  thousand  tons 
of  coal  are  thousands  of  rats.  There  is  no  way  for  them 
to  get  out  of  their  steel- walled  prison,  for  all  the  ventilators 
are  guarded  with  stout  wire-mesh.  On  her  previous  voy 
age,  loaded  with  barley,  they  increased  and  multiplied. 
Now  they  are  imprisoned  in  the  coal,  and  cannibalism  is 
what  must  occur  among  them.  Mr.  Pike  says  that  when 
we  reach  Seattle  there  will  be  a  dozen  or  a  score  of  sur 
vivors,  huge  fellows,  the  strongest  and  fiercest.  Some 
times,  passing  the  mouth  of  one  ventilator  that  is  in  the 
after  wall  of  the  chart-house,  I  can  hear  their  plaintive 
squealing  and  crying  from  far  beneath  in  the  coal. 

Other  and  luckier  rats  are  in  the  'tween  decks  for'ard 
where  all  the  spare  suits  of  sails  are  stored.  They  come 
out  and  run  about  the  deck  at  night,  steal  food  from  the 
galley,  and  lap  up  the  dew.  Which  reminds  me  that  Mr. 
Pike  will  no  longer  look  at  Possum.  It  seems,  under  his 
suggestion,  that  Wada  trapped  a  rat  in  the  donkey-engine 
room.  Wada  swears  that  it  was  the  father  of  all  rats,  and 
that,  by  actual  measurement,  it  scaled  eighteen  inches  from 


162        THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

nose  to  tip  of  tail.  Also,  it  seems  that  Mr.  Pike  and 
Wada,  with  the  door  shut  in  the  former's  room,  pitted  the 
rat  against  Possum,  and  that  Possum  was  licked.  They 
were  compelled  to  kill  the  rat  themselves,  while  Possum, 
when  all  was  over,  lay  down  and  had  a  fit. 

Now  Mr.  Pike  abhors  a  coward,  and  his  disgust  with 
Possum  is  profound.  He  no  longer  plays  with  the  puppy, 
nor  even  speaks  to  him,  and,  whenever  he  passes  him  on 
the  deck,  glowers  sourly  at  him. 

I  have  been  reading  up  the  South  Atlantic  Sailing  Direc 
tions,  and  I  find  that  we  are  now  entering  the  most  beauti 
ful  sunset  region  in  the  world.  And  this  evening  we  were 
favored  with  a  sample.  I  was  in  my  quarters,  overhauling 
my  books,  when  Miss  West  called  to  me  from  the  foot  of 
the  chart-house  stairs: 

'  *  Mr.  Pathurst ! — Come  quick !  Oh,  do  come  quick !  You 
can't  afford  to  miss  it!" 

Half  the  sky,  from  the  zenith  to  the  western  sea-line,  was 
an  astonishing  sheen  of  pure,  pale,  even  gold.  And  through 
this  sheen,  on  the  horizon,  burned  the  sun,  a  disk  of  richer 
gold.  The  gold  of  the  sky  grew  more  golden,  then  tarnished 
before  our  eyes  and  began  to  glow  faintly  with  red.  As  the 
red  deepened,  a  mist  spread  over  the  whole  sheet  of  gold 
and  the  burning  yellow  sun.  Turner  was  never  guilty  of 
so  audacious  an  orgy  in  gold-mist. 

Presently,  along  the  horizon,  entirely  completing  the 
circle  of  sea  and  sky,  the  tight-packed  shapes  of  the  trade 
wind  clouds  began  to  show  through  the  mist;  and  as  they 
took  form  they  spilled  with  rose-color  at  their  upper  edges, 
while  their  bases  were  a  pulsing,  bluish-white.  I  say  it 
advisedly.  All  the  colors  of  this  display  pulsed. 

As  the  gold-mist  continued  to  clear  away,  the  colors 
became  garish,  bold;  the  turquoises  went  into  greens  and 
the  roses  turned  to  the  red  of  blood.  And  the  purple  and 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         163 

indigo  of  the  long  swells  of  sea  were  bronzed  with  the 
color-riot  in  the  sky,  while  across  the  water,  like  gigantic 
serpents,  crawled  red  and  green  sky-reflections.  And  then 
all  the  gorgeousness  quickly  dulled,  and  the  warm,  tropic 
darkness  drew  about  us. 


CHAPTER   XXYI 

THIS  Elsinore  is  truly  the  ship  of  souls,  the  world  in 
miniature;  and,  because  she  is  such  a  small  world,  cleav 
ing  this  vastitude  of  ocean  as  our  larger  world  cleaves 
space,  the  strange  juxtapositions  that  continually  occur 
are  startling. 

For  instance,  this  afternoon  on  the  poop.  Let  me  de 
scribe  it.  Here  was  Miss  West,  in  a  crisp  duck  sailor  suit, 
immaculately  white,  open  at  the  throat,  where,  under  the 
broad  collar,  was  knotted  a  man-of-war  black  silk  neck 
erchief.  Her  smooth-groomed  hair,  a  trifle  rebellious  in 
the  breeze,  was  glorious.  And  here  was  I,  in  white  ducks, 
white  shoes,  and  white  silk  shirt,  as  immaculate  and  well 
tended  as  she.  The  steward  was  just  bringing  the  pretty 
tea  service  for  Miss  West,  and  in  the  background  Wada 
hovered. 

We  had  been  discussing  philosophy — or,  rather,  I  had 
been  feeling  her  out;  and  from  a  sketch  of  Spinoza's  an 
ticipations  of  the  modern  mind,  through  the  speculative 
interpretations  of  the  latest  achievements  in  physics  of 
Sir  Oliver  Lodge  and  Sir  William  Ramsay,  I  had  come, 
as  usual,  to  De  Casseres,  whom  I  was  quoting,  when  Mr. 
Pike  snarled  orders  to  the  watch. 

11  'In  this  rise  into  the  azure  of  pure  perception,  attain 
able  only  by  a  very  few  human  beings,  the  spectacular 
sense  is  born,'  "  I  was  quoting.  "  'Life  is  no  longer  good 
or  evil.  It  is  a  perpetual  play  of  forces  without  beginning 
or  end.  The  freed  Intellect  merges  itself  with  the  World- 
Will  and  partakes  of  its  essence,  which  is  not  a  moral 
essence  but  an  aesthetic  essence.  .  .  .'  ' 

164 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         165 

And  at  this  moment  the  watch  swarmed  on  to  the  poop 
to  haul  on  the  port  braces  of  the  mizzen  skysail,  royal  and 
topgallantsail.  The  sailors  passed  us,  or  toiled  close  to 
us,  with  lowered  eyes.  They  did  not  look  at  us,  so  far  re 
moved  from  them  were  we.  It  was  this  contrast  that  caught 
my  fancy.  Here  were  the  high  and  low,  slaves  and  masters, 
beauty  and  ugliness,  cleanness  and  filth.  Their  feet  were 
bare  and  scaled  with  patches  of  tar  and  pitch.  Their  un- 
bathed  bodies  were  garmented  in  the  meanest  of  clothes, 
dingy,  dirty,  ragged,  and  sparse.  Each  one  had  on  but 
two  garments — dungaree  trousers  and  a  shoddy  cotton 
shirt. 

And  we,  in  our  comfortable  deck  chairs,  our  two  servants 
at  our  backs,  the  quintessence  of  elegant  leisure,  sipped 
delicate  tea  from  beautiful,  fragile  cups,  and  looked  on 
at  these  wretched  ones  whose  labor  made  possible  the 
journey  of  our  little  world.  We  did  not  speak  to  them, 
nor  recognize  their  existence,  any  more  than  would  they 
have  dared  speak  to  us. 

And  Miss  West,  with  the  appraising  eye  of  a  plantation 
mistress  for  the  condition  of  her  field  slaves,  looked  them 
over. 

"You  see  how  they  have  fleshed  up,"  she  said,  as  they 
coiled  the  last  turns  of  the  ropes  over  the  pins  and  faded 
away  for'ard  off  the  poop.  "It  is  the  regular  hours,  the 
good  weather,  the  hard  work,  the  open  air,  the  sufficient 
food,  and  the  absence  of  whiskey.  And  they  will  keep  in 
this  fettle  until  they  get  off  the  Horn.  And  then  you  will 
see  them  go  down  from  day  to  day.  A  winter  passage  of 
the  Horn  is  always  a  severe  strain  on  the  men. 

' '  But  then,  once  we  are  around  and  in  the  good  weather 
of  the  Pacific,  you  will  see  them  gain  again  from  day  to 
day.  And  when  we  reach  Seattle,  they  will  be  in  splendid 
shape.  Only  they  will  go  ashore,  drink  up  their  wages  in 
several  days,  and  ship  away  on  other  vessels  in  precisely 


166         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  same  sodden,  miserable  condition  that  they  were  in 
when  they  sailed  with  us  from  Baltimore." 

And  just  then  Captain  West  came  out  the  chart-house 
door,  strolled  by  for  a  single  turn  up  and  down,  and  with 
a  smile  and  a  word  for  us  and  an  all-observant  eye  for 
the  ship,  the  trim  of  her  sails,  the  wind,  and  the  sky,  and 
the  weather  promise,  went  back  through  the  chart-house 
door — the  blond  Aryan  master,  the  king,  the  Samurai. 

And  I  finished  sipping  my  tea  of  delicious  and  most 
expensive  aroma,  and  our  slant-eyed,  dark-skinned  servi 
tors  carried  the  pretty  gear  away,  and  I  read,  continuing 
De  Casseres: 

11  '  Instinct  wills,  creates,  carries  on  the  work  of  the 
species.  The  Intellect  destroys,  negatives,  satirizes,  and 
ends  in  pure  nihilism.  Instinct  creates  life,  endlessly, 
hurling  forth  profusely  and  blindly  its  clowns,  tragedians, 
and  comedians.  Intellect  remains  the  eternal  spectator  of 
the  play.  It  participates  at  will,  but  never  gives  itself 
wholly  to  the  fine  sport.  The  Intellect,  freed  from  the 
trammels  of  the  personal  will,  soars  into  the  ether  of  per 
ception,  where  Instinct  follows  it  in  a  thousand  disguises, 
seeking  to  draw  it  down  to  earth/  " 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

WE  are  now  south  of  Rio  and  working  south.  We  are 
out  of  the  latitude  of  the  trades,  and  the  wind  is  capricious. 
Rain  squalls  and  wind  squalls  vex  the  Elsinore.  One  hour 
we  may  be  rolling  sickeningly  in  a  dead  calm,  and  the 
next  hour  we  may  be  dashing  fourteen  knots  through  the 
water  and  taking  off  sail  as  fast  as  the  men  can  clew  up 
and  lower  away.  A  night  of  calm,  when  sleep  is  well  nigh 
impossible  in  the  sultry,  muggy  air,  may  be  followed  by 
a  day  of  blazing  sun  and  an  oily  swell  from  the  south 'ard 
connoting  great  gales  in  that  area  of  ocean  we  are  sailing 
toward — or  all  day  long  the  Elsinore,  under  an  overcast 
sky,  royals  and  skysails  furled,  may  plunge  and  buck  under 
wind -pressure  into  a  short  and  choppy  head-sea. 

And  all  this  means  work  for  the  men.  Taking  Mr. 
Pike's  judgment,  they  are  very  inadequate,  though  by  this 
time  they  know  the  ropes.  He  growls  and  grumbles,  and 
snorts  and  sneers,  whenever  he  watches  them  doing  any 
thing.  To-day,  at  eleven  in  the  morning,  the  wind  was  so 
violent,  continuing  in  greater  gusts  after  having  come  in 
a  great  gust,  that  Mr.  Pike  ordered  the  mainsail  taken 
off.  The  great  crojack  was  already  off.  But  the  watch 
could  not  clew  up  the  mainsail,  and,  after  much  vain  sing 
songing  and  pull-hauling,  the  watch  below  was  routed  out 
to  bear  a  hand. 

"My  God!"  Mr.  Pike  groaned  to  me.  "Two  watches 
for  a  rag  like  that  when  half  a  decent  watch  could  do  it ! 
Look  at  that  preventer  bosun  of  mine!" 

Poor  Nancy!  He  looked  the  saddest,  sickest,  bleakest 
creature  I  had  ever  seen.  He  was  so  wretched,  so  miser- 

167 


168         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

able,  so  helpless.  And  Sundry  Buyers  was  just  as  im 
potent.  The  expression  on  his  face  was  of  pain  and  hope 
lessness,  and,  as  he  pressed  his  abdomen  he  lumbered 
futilely  about,  ever  seeking  something  he  might  do  and 
ever  failing  to  find  it.  Pie  pottered.  He  would  stand  and 
stare  at  one  rope  for  a  minute  or  so  at  a  time,  following 
it  aloft  with  his  eyes  through  the  maze  of  ropes  and 
stays  and  gears  with  all  the  intentness  of  a  man  working 
out  an  intricate  problem.  Then,  holding  his  hand  against 
his  stomach,  he  would  lumber  on  a  few  steps  and  select 
another  rope  for  study. 

' '  Oh  dear,  oh  dear, ' '  Mr.  Pike  lamented.  ' '  How  can  one 
drive  with  bosuns  like  that  and  a  crew  like  that?  Just 
the  same,  if  I  was  captain  of  this  ship  I'd  drive  'em.  I'd 
show  'em  what  drive  was,  if  I  had  to  lose  a  few  of  them. 
And  when  they  grow  weak  off  the  Horn  what '11  we  do? 
It'll  be  both  watches  all  the  time,  which  will  weaken  them 
just  that  much  the  faster." 

Evidently  this  winter  passage  of  the  Horn  is  all  that 
one  has  been  led  to  expect  from  reading  the  narratives  of 
the  navigators.  Iron  men  like  the  two  mates  are  very  re 
spectful  of  "Cape  Stiff,"  as  they  call  that  uttermost  tip 
of  the  American  continent.  Speaking  of  the  two  mates, 
iron-made  and  iron-mouthed  that  they  are,  it  is  amusing 
that  in  really  serious  moments  both  of  them  curse  with 
"Oh  dear,  oh  dear." 

In  the  spells  of  calm  I  take  great  delight  in  the  little 
rifle.  I  have  already  fired  away  five  thousand  rounds,  and 
have  come  to  consider  myself  an  expert.  Whatever  the 
knack  of  shooting  may  be,  I've  got  it.  When  I  get  back 
I  shall  take  up  target  practice.  It  is  a  neat,  deft  sport. 

Not  only  is  Possum  afraid  of  the  sails  and  of  rats,  but 
he  is  afraid  of  rifle-fire,  and  at  the  first  discharge  goes 
yelping  and  ki-yi  ing  below.  The  dislike  Mr.  Pike  has 
developed  for  the  poor  little  puppy  is  ludicrous.  He  even 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         169 

told  me  that,  if  it  were  his  dog,  he'd  throw  it  overboard 
for  a  target.  Just  the  same,  he  is  an  affectionate,  heart 
warming  little  rascal,  and  has  already  crept  so  deep  into 
my  heart  that  I  am  glad  Miss  West  did  not  accept  him. 

And — oh! — he  insists  on  sleeping  with  me,  on  top  the 
bedding;  a  proceeding  which  has  scandalized  the  mate.  "I 
suppose  he'll  be  using  your  toothbrush  next,"  Mr.  Pike 
growled  at  me.  But  the  puppy  loves  my  companionship, 
and  is  never  happier  than  when  on  the  bed  with  me.  Yet 
the  bed  is  not  entirely  paradise,  for  Possum  is  badly  fright 
ened  when  ours  is  the  lee  side  and  the  seas  pound  and 
smash  against  the  glass  ports.  Then  the  little  beggar, 
electric  with  fear  to  every  hair  tip,  crouches  and  snarls 
menacingly  and  almost  at  the  same  time  whimpers  appeas- 
ingly  at  the  storm-monster  outside. 

"Father  knows  the  sea,"  Miss  West  said  to  me  this 
afternoon.  "He  understands  it,  and  he  loves  it." 

"Or  it  may  be  habit,"  I  ventured. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He  does  know  it.  And  he  loves  it.  That  is  why  he 
has  come  back  to  it.  All  his  people  before  him  were  sea 
folk.  His  grandfather,  Anthony  West,  made  forty-six  voy 
ages  between  1801  and  1847.  And  his  father,  Robert, 
sailed  master  to  the  Northwest  Coast  before  the  gold  days 
and  was  captain  of  some  of  the  fastest  Cape  Horn  clippers 
after  the  gold  discovery.  Elijah  West,  father's  great 
grandfather,  was  a  privateersman  in  the  Revolution.  He 
commanded  the  armed  brig  New  Defense.  And,  even  be 
fore  that,  Elijah's  father,  in  turn,  and  Elijah's  father's 
father,  were  masters  and  owners  on  long- voyage  merchant 
adventures. 

"Anthony  West,  in  1813  and  1814,  commanded  the 
David  Bruce  with  letters  of  marque.  He  was  half-owner, 
with  Gracie  &  Sons  as  the  other  half-owners.  She  was  a 
two-hundred-ton  schooner,  built  right  up  in  Maine.  She 


170         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

carried  a  long  eighteen-pounder,  two  ten-pounders,  and  ten 
six-pounders,  and  she  sailed  like  a  witch.  She  ran  the 
blockade  off  Newport  and  got  away  to  the  English  Chan 
nel  and  the  Bay  of  Biscay.  And,  do  you  know,  though 
she  only  cost  twelve  thousand  dollars  all  told,  she  took 
over  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  British  prizes.  A 
brother  of  his  was  on  the  Wasp. 

' '  So,  you  see,  the  sea  is  in  our  blood.  She  is  our  mother. 
As  far  back  as  we  can  trace,  all  our  line  was  born  to  the 
sea."  She  laughed  and  went  on.  "We've  pirates  and 
slavers  in  our  family,  and  all  sorts  of  disreputable  sea- 
rovers.  Old  Ezra  West,  just  how  far  back  I  don't  re 
member,  was  executed  for  piracy  and  his  body  hung  in 
chains  at  Plymouth. 

"The  sea  is  father's  blood.  And  he  knows,  well,  a  ship, 
as  you  would  know  a  dog  or  a  horse.  Every  ship  he  sails 
has  a  distinct  personality  for  him.  I  have  watched  him, 
in  high  moments,  and  seen  him  think.  But  oh !  the  times 
I  have  seen  him  when  he  does  not  think — when  he  feels 
and  knows  everything  without  thinking  at  all.  Really, 
with  all  that  appertains  to  the  sea  and  ships,  he  is  an 
artist.  There  is  no  other  word  for  it." 

"You  think  a  great  deal  of  your  father,"  I  remarked. 

"He  is  the  most  wonderful  man  I  have  ever  known," 
she  replied.  "Remember,  you  are  not  seeing  him  at  his 
best.  He  has  never  been  the  same  since  mother's  death. 
If  ever  a  man  and  woman  were  one,  they  were."  She 
broke  off,  then  concluded  abruptly.  "You  don't  know 
him.  You  don't  know  him  at  all." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

* '  I  THINK  we  are  going  to  have  a  fine  sunset, ' '  Captain 
West  remarked  last  evening. 

Miss  West  and  I  abandoned  our  rubber  of  cribbage  and 
hastened  on  deck.  The  sunset  had  not  yet  come,  but  all 
was  preparing.  As  we  gazed,  we  could  see  the  sky  gather 
ing  the  materials,  grouping  the  gray  clouds  in  long  lines 
and  towering  masses,  spreading  its  palette  with  slow-grow 
ing,  glowing  tints  and  sudden  blobs  of  color. 

"It's  the  Golden  Gate!"  Miss  West  cried,  indicating 
the  west.  "See!  We're  just  inside  the  harbor.  Look  to 
the  south  there.  If  that  isn't  the  sky-line  of  San  Fran 
cisco!  There's  the  Call  Building,  and  there,  far  down, 
the  Ferry  Tower,  and  surely  that  is  the  Fairmont."  Her 
eyes  roved  back  through  the  opening  between  the  cloud 
masses,  and  she  clapped  her  hands.  "It's  a  sunset  within 
a  sunset!  See!  The  Farallones! — swimming  in  a  minia 
ture  orange  and  red  sunset  all  their  own.  Isn't  it  the 
Golden  Gate,  and  San  Francisco,  and  the  Farallones?" 
she  appealed  to  Mr.  Pike,  who,  leaning  near,  on  the  poop 
rail,  was  divided  between  gazing  sourly  at  Nancy  potter 
ing  on  the  main  deck  and  sourly  at  Possum,  who,  on  the 
bridge,  crouched  with  terror  each  time  the  crojack  flapped 
emptily  above  him. 

The  mate  turned  his  head  and  favored  the  sky  picture 
with  a  solemn  stare. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  growled.  "It  may  look  like 
the  Farallones  to  you,  but  to  me  it  looks  like  a  battleship 
coming  right  in  the  Gate  with  a  bone  in  its  teeth  at  a 
twenty-knot  clip." 

171 


172         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Sure  enough.  The  floating  Farallones  had  metamor 
phosed  into  a  giant  warship. 

Then  came  the  color  riot,  the  dominant  tone  of  which 
was  green.  It  was  green,  green,  green — the  blue  green  of 
the  springing  year,  the  sere  and  yellow  green  and  tawny- 
brown  green  of  autumn.  There  was  orange  green,  gold 
green,  and  a  copper  green.  And  all  these  greens  were 
rich  green  beyond  description;  and  yet  the  richness  and 
the  greenness  passed  even  as  we  gazed  upon  it,  going  out 
of  the  gray  clouds  and  into  the  sea,  which  assumed  the 
exquisite  golden  pink  of  polished  copper,  while  the  hollows 
of  the  smooth  and  silken  ripples  were  touched  by  a  most 
ethereal  pea  green. 

The  gray  clouds  became  a  long,  low  swath  of  ruby  red, 
or  garnet  red — such  as  one  sees  in  a  glass  of  heavy  bur 
gundy  when  held  to  the  light.  There  was  such  depth  to 
this  red!  And,  below  it,  separated  from  the  main  color- 
mass  by  a  line  of  gray-white  fog,  or  line  of  sea,  was  an 
other  and  smaller  streak  of  ruddy-colored  wine. 

I  strolled  across  the  poop  to  the  port  side. 

"Oh I  Come  back!  Look!  Look!"  Miss  West  cried 
to  me. 

" What's  the  use?"  I  answered.  "I've  something  just 
as  good  over  here." 

She  joined  me,  and  as  she  did  so  I  noted  a  sour  grin 
on  Mr.  Pike's  face. 

The  eastern  heavens  were  equally  spectacular.  That 
quarter  of  the  sky  was  a  sheer  and  delicate  shell  of  blue, 
the  upper  portions  of  which  faded,  changed,  through  every 
harmony,  into  a  pale,  yet  warm,  rose,  all  trembling,  palpi 
tating,  with  misty  blue  tinting  into  pink.  The  reflection 
of  this  colored  sky-shell  upon  the  water  made  of  the  sea  a 
glimmering  watered  silk,  all  changeable  blue,  Nile-green, 
and  salmon-pink.  It  was  silky,  silken,  a  wonderful  silk 
that  veneered  and  flossed  the  softly  moving,  wavy  water. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         173 

And  the  pale  moon  looked  like  a  wet  pearl  gleaming 
through  the  tinted  mist  of  the  sky-shell. 

In  the  southern  quadrant  of  the  sky  we  discovered  an 
entirely  different  sunset — what  would  be  accounted  a  very 
excellent  orange-and-red  sunset  anywhere,  with  gray  clouds 
hanging  low  and  lighted  and  tinted  on  all  their  under 
edges. 

"Huh!"  Mr.  Pike  muttered  gruffly,  while  we  were  ex 
claiming  over  our  fresh  discovery.  "Look  at  the  sunset 
I  got  here  to  the  north.  It  ain't  doing  so  badly  now,  I 
leave  it  to  you." 

And  it  wasn't.  The  northern  quadrant  was  a  great  fan 
of  color  and  cloud  that  spread  ribs  of  feathery  pink,  fleece- 
frilled,  from  the  horizon  to  the  zenith.  It  was  all  amazing. 
Four  sunsets  at  the  one  time  in  the  sky!  Each  quadrant 
glowed,  and  burned,  and  pulsed  with  a  sunset  distinctly 
its  own. 

And  as  the  colors  dulled  in  the  slow  twilight,  the  moon, 
still  misty,  wept  tears  of  brilliant  heavy  silver  into  the  dim 
lilac  sea.  And  then  came  the  hush  of  darkness  and  the 
night,  and  we  came  to  ourselves,  out  of  reverie,  sated  with 
beauty,  leaning  toward  each  other  as  we  leaned  upon  the 
rail  side  by  side. 

I  never  grow  tired  of  watching  Captain  West.  In  a 
way  he  bears  a  sort  of  resemblance  to  several  of  Washing-  - 
ton's  portraits.  He  is  six  feet  of  aristocratic  thinness, 
and  has  a  very  definite,  leisurely,  and  stately  grace  of 
movement.  His  thinness  is  almost  ascetic.  In  appearance 
and  manner  he  is  the  perfect  old-type  New  England  gen 
tleman. 

He  has  the  same  gray  eyes  as  his  daughter,  although 
his  are  genial  rather  than  warm;  and  his  eyes  have  the 
same  trick  of  smiling.  His  skin  is  pinker  than  hers,  and 
his  brows  and  lashes  are  fairer.  But  he  seems  removed 


174        THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

beyond  passion,  or  even  simple  enthusiasm.  Miss  West  is 
firm,  like  her  father;  but  there  is  warmth  in  her  firmness. 
He  is  clean,  he  is  sweet  and  courteous;  but  he  is  coolly 
sweet,  coolly  courteous.  With  all  his  certain  graciousness, 
in  cabin  or  on  deck,  so  far  as  his  social  equals  are  con 
cerned,  his  graciousness  is  cool,  elevated,  thin. 

He  is  the  perfect  master  of  the  art  of  doing  nothing.  He 
never  reads,  except  the  Bible;  yet  he  is  never  bored. 
Often,  I  note  him  in  a  deck  chair,  studying  his  perfect 
finger-nails,  and,  I'll  swear,  not  seeing  them  at  all.  Miss 
West  says  he  loves  the  sea.  And  I  ask  myself  a  thousand 
times,  "But  how?"  He  shows  no  interest  in  any  phase 
of  the  sea.  Although  he  called  our  attention  to  the  glorious 
sunset  I  have  just  described,  he  did  not  remain  on  deck 
to  enjoy  it.  He  sat  below,  in  the  big  leather  chair,  not 
reading,  not  dozing,  but  merely  gazing  straight  before  him 
at  nothing. 

The  days  pass,  and  the  seasons  pass.  We  left  Baltimore 
at  the  tail-end  of  winter,  went  into  spring  and  on  through 
summer,  and  now  we  are  in  fall  weather  and  urging  our 
way  south  to  the  winter  of  Cape  Horn.  And  as  we  double 
the  Cape  and  proceed  north,  we  shall  go  through  spring 
and  summer — a  long  summer — pursuing  the  sun  north 
through  its  declination  and  arriving  at  Seattle  in  summer. 
And  all  these  seasons  have  occurred,  and  will  have  oc 
curred,  in  the  space  of  five  months. 

Our  white  ducks  are  gone,  and,  in  south  latitude  thirty- 
five,  we  are  wearing  the  garments  of  a  temperate  clime. 
I  notice  that  Wada  has  given  me  heavier  underclothes  and 
heavier  pajamas,  and  that  Possum,  of  nights,  is  no  longer 
content  with  the  top  of  the  bed  but  must  crawl  underneath 
the  bedclothes. 

We  are  now  off  the  Plate,  a  region  notorious  for  storms, 
and  Mr.  Pike  is  on  the  lookout  for  a  pampero.  Captain 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         175 

West  does  not  seem  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  anything ;  yet 
I  notice  that  he  spends  longer  hours  on  deck  when  the  sky 
and  barometer  are  threatening. 

Yesterday,  we  had  a  hint  of  Plate  weather,  and  to-day 
an  awesome  fiasco  of  the  same.  The  hint  came  last  even 
ing  between  the  twilight  and  the  dark.  There  was  prac 
tically  no  wind,  and  the  Elsinore,  just  maintaining  steer 
age  way  by  means  of  intermittent  fans  of  air  from  the 
north,  floundered  exasperatingly  in  a  huge  glassy  swell 
that  rolled  up  as  an  echo  from  some  blown-out  storm  to 
the  south. 

Ahead  of  us,  arising  with  the  swiftness  of  magic,  was  a 
dense  slate-blackness.  I  suppose  it  was  cloud-formation, 
but  it  bore  no  semblance  to  clouds.  It  was  merely  and 
sheerly  a  blackness  that  towered  higher  and  higher  until 
it  overhung  us,  while  it  spread  to  right  and  left,  blotting* 
out  half  the  sea. 

And  still  the  light  puffs  from  the  north  filled  our  sails; 
and  still,  as  the  Elsinore  floundered  on  the  huge,  smooth 
swells  and  the  sails  emptied  and  flapped  a  hollow  thunder, 
we  moved  slowly  toward  that  ominous  blackness.  In  the 
east,  in  what  was  quite  distinctly  an  active  thunder  cloud, 
the  lightning  fairly  winked,  while  the  blackness  in  front  of 
us  was  rent  with  blobs  and  flashes  of  lightning. 

The  last  puffs  left  us,  and  in  the  hushes,  between  the 
rumbles  of  the  nearing  thunder,  the  voices  of  the  men  aloft 
on  the  yards  came  to  one's  ear  as  if  they  were  right  beside 
one  instead  of  being  hundreds  of  feet  away  and  up  in  the 
air.  That  they  were  duly  impressed  by  what  was  impend 
ing  was  patent  from  the  earnestness  with  which  they 
worked.  Both  watches  toiled  under  both  mates,  and  Cap 
tain  West  strolled  the  poop  in  his  usual  casual  way  and 
gave  no  orders  at  all,  save  in  low  conversational  tones, 
when  Mr.  Pike  came  upon  the  poop  and  conferred  with 
him. 


176         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Miss  West,  having  deserted  the  scene  five  minutes  before, 
returned,  a  proper  seawoman,  clad  in  oilskins,  sou'wester, 
and  long  sea-boots.  She  ordered  me,  quite  peremptorily, 
to  do  the  same.  But  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  leave  the 
deck  for  fear  of  missing  something,  so  I  compromised  by 
having  Wada  bring  my  storm-gear  to  me. 

And  then  the  wind  came,  smack  out  of  the  blackness, 
with  the  abruptness  of  thunder  and  accompanied  by  the 
most  diabolical  thunder.  And  with  the  rain  and  thunder 
came  the  blackness.  It  was  tangible.  It  drove  past  us  in 
the  bellowing  wind  like  so  much  stuff  that  one  could  feel. 
Blackness  as  well  as  wind  impacted  on  us.  There  is  no 
other  way  to  describe  it  than  by  the  old,  ancient  old,  way 
of  saying  one  could  not  see  his  hand  before  his  face. 

"Isn't  it  splendid!"  Miss  West  shouted  into  my  ear, 
close  beside  me,  as  we  clung  to  the  railing  of  the  break  of 
the  poop. 

"Superb!"  I  shouted  back,  my  lips  to  her  ear,  so  that 
her  hair  tickled  my  face. 

And,  I  know  not  why — it  must  have  been  spontaneous 
with  both  of  us — in  that  shouting  blackness  of  wind,  as  we 
clung  to  the  rail  to  avoid  being  blown  away,  our  hands 
went  out  to  each  other  and  my  hand  and  hers  gripped  and 
pressed  and  then  held  mutually  to  the  rail. 

"Daughter  of  Herodias,"  I  commented  grimly  to  my 
self;  but  my  hand  did  not  leave  hers. 

"What  is  happening?"  I  shouted  in  her  ear. 

"We've  lost  way,"  came  her  answer.  "I  think  we're 
caught  aback!  The  wheel's  up,  but  she  could  not  steer!" 

The  Gabriel  voice  of  the  Samurai  rang  out.  "Hard 
over?"  was  his  mellow  storm-call  to  the  man  at  the  wheel. 
"Hard  over,  sir,"  came  the  helmsman's  reply,  vague, 
cracked  with  strain,  and  smothered. 

Came  the  lightning,  before  us,  behind  us,  on  every  side, 
bathing  us  in  flaming  minutes  at  a  time.  And  all  the 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         177 

while  we  were  deafened  by  the  unceasing  uproar  of  thun 
der.  It  was  a  weird  sight — far  aloft  the  black  skeleton  of 
spars  and  masts  from  which  the  sails  had  been  removed; 
lower  down,  the  sailors  clinging  like  monstrous  bugs  as 
they  passed  the  gaskets  and  furled;  beneath  them  the  few 
set  sails,  filled  backward  against  the  masts,  gleaming 
whitely,  wickedly,  evilly,  in  the  fearful  illumination;  and, 
at  the  bottom,  the  deck  and  bridge  and  houses  of  the 
Elsinore,  and  a  tangled  riff-raff  of  flying  ropes,  and  clumps 
and  bunches  of  swaying,  pulling,  hauling,  human  creatures. 

It  was  a  great  moment,  the  master's  moment — caught 
all  aback  with  all  our  bulk  and  tonnage  and  infinitude  of 
gear,  and  our  heaven  aspiring  masts  two  hundred  feet  above 
our  heads.  And  our  master  was  there,  in  sheeting  flame, 
slender,  casual,  imperturbable,  with  two  men — one  of  them 
a  murderer — under. him  to  pass  on  and  enforce  his  will, 
and  with  a  horde  of  inefficients  and  weaklings  to  obey 
that  will,  and  pull,  and  haul,  and  by  the  sheer  leverages 
of  physics  manipulate  our  floating  world  so  that  it  would 
endure  this  fury  of  the  elements. 

What  happened  next,  what  was  done,  I  do  not  know, 
save  that  now  and  again  I  heard  the  Gabriel  voice;  for 
the  darkness  came,  and  the  rain  in  pouring,  horizontal 
sheets.  It  filled  my  mouth  and  strangled  my  lungs  as  if 
I  had  fallen  overboard.  It  seemed  to  drive  up  as  well  as 
down,  piercing  its  way  under  my  sou'wester,  through  my 
oilskins,  down  my  tight-buttoned  collar,  and  into  my  sea- 
boots.  I  was  dizzied,  obfuscated,  by  all  this  onslaught  of 
thunder,  lightning,  wind,  blackness,  and  water.  And  yet 
the  master,  near  to  me,  there  on  the  poop,  lived  and  moved 
serenely  through  it  all,  voicing  his  wisdom  and  will  to  the 
wisps  of  creatures  who  obeyed  and  by  their  brute,  puny 
strength  pulled  braces,  slacked  sheets,  dragged  courses, 
swung  yards  and  lowered  them,  hauled  on  buntlines  and 


178         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

clewlines,  and  smothered  and  gasketed  the  huge  spreads 
of  canvas. 

How  it  happened  I  know  not,  but  Miss  West  and  I 
crouched  together,  clinging  to  the  rail  and  to  each  other 
in  the  shelter  of  the  thrumming  weather-cloth.  My  arm 
was  about  her  and  fast  to  the  railing ;  her  shoulder  pressed 
close  against  me,  and  by  one  hand  she  held  tightly  to  the 
lapel  of  my  oilskin. 

An  hour  later  we  made  our  way  across  the  poop  to  the 
chart-house,  helping  each  other  to  maintain  footing  as  the 
Elsinore  plunged  and  bucked  in  the  rising  sea  and  was 
pressed  over  and  down  by  the  weight  of  wind  on  her  few 
remaining  set  sails.  The  wind,  which  had  lulled  after  the 
rain,  had  risen  in  recurrent  gusts  to  storm  violence.  But 
all  was  well  with  the  gallant  ship.  The  crisis  was  past, 
and  the  ship  lived,  and  we  lived,  and  with  streaming  faces 
and  bright  eyes  we  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  chart-room. 

''Who  can  blame  one  for  loving  the  sea?"  Miss  West 
cried  out  exultantly,  as  she  wrung  the  rain  from  her  ropes 
of  hair  which  had  gone  adrift  in  the  turmoil.  "And  the 
men  of  the  sea!"  she  cried.  "The  masters  of  the  sea! 
You  saw  my  father  ..." 

"He  is  a  king,"  I  said. 

"He  is  a  king,"  she  repeated  after  me. 

And  the  Elsinore  lifted  on  a  cresting  sea  and  flung  down 
on  her  side,  so  that  we  were  thrown  together  and  brought 
up  breathless  against  the  wall. 

I  said  good  night  to  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and, 
as  I  passed  the  open  door  to  the  cabin,  I  glanced  in.  There 
sat  Captain  West,  whom  I  had  thought  still  on  deck.  His 
storm-trappings  were  removed,  his  sea-boots  replaced  by 
slippers;  and  he  leaned  back  in  the  big  leather  chair,  eyes 
wide  open,  beholding  visions  in  the  curling  smoke  of  a 
cigar  against  a  background  of  wildly  reeling  cabin  wall. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         179 

It  was  at  eleven  this  morning  that  the  Plate  gave  us  a 
fiasco.  Last  night's  was  a  real  pampero — though  a  mild 
one.  To-day's  promised  to  be  a  far  worse  one,  and  then 
laughed  at  us  as  a  proper  cosmic  joke.  The  wind,  during 
the  night,  had  so  eased  that  by  nine  in  the  morning  we 
had  all  our  topgallant-sails  set.  By  ten  we  were  rolling 
in  a  dead  calm.  By  eleven  the  stuff  began  making  up 
ominously  in  the  south 'ard. 

The  overcast  sky  closed  down.  Our  lofty  trucks  seemed 
to  scrape  the  cloud-zenith.  The  horizon  drew  in  on  us  till 
it  seemed  scarcely  half  a  mile  away.  The  Elsinore  was 
embayed  in  a  tiny  universe  of  mist  and  sea.  The  lightning 
played.  Sky  and  horizon  drew  so  close  that  the  Elsinore 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  being  absorbed,  sucked  in  by  it, 
sucked  up  by  it. 

Then  from  zenith  to  horizon  the  sky  was  cracked  with 
forked  lightning,  and  the  wet  atmosphere  turned  to  a 
horrid  green.  The  rain,  beginning  gently,  in  dead  calm, 
grew  into  a  deluge  of  enormous  streaming  drops.  It  grew 
darker  and  darker,  a  green  darkness,  and  in  the  cabin,  al 
though  it  was  midday,  Wada  and  the  steward  lighted 
lamps.  The  lightning  came  closer  and  closer,  until  the 
ship  was  enveloped  in  it.  The  green  darkness  was  con 
tinually  a-tremble  with  flame,  through  which  broke  greater 
illuminations  of  forked  lightning.  These  became  more 
violent  as  the  rain  lessened,  and,  so  absolutely  were  we 
centered  in  this  electrical  maelstrom,  there  was  no  con 
necting  any  chain  or  flash  or  fork  of  lightning  with  any 
particular  thunderclap.  The  atmosphere  all  about  us 
pealed  and  flamed.  Such  a  crashing  and  smashing!  We 
looked  every  moment  for  the  Elsinore  to  be  struck.  And 
never  had  I  seen  such  colors  in  lightning.  Although  from 
moment  to  moment  we  were  dazzled  by  the  greater  bolts, 
there  persisted  always  a  tremulous,  pulsing  lesser  play  of 


180         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

light,  sometimes  softly  blue,  at  other  times  a  thin  purple 
that  quivered  on  into  a  thousand  shades  of  lavender. 

And  there  was  no  wind.  No  wind  came.  Nothing  hap 
pened.  The  Elsinore,  naked-sparred,  under  only  lower 
topsails,  with  spanker  and  crojack  furled,  was  prepared 
for  anything.  Her  lower  topsails  hung  in  limp  emptiness 
from  the  yards,  heavy  with  rain  and  flapping  soggily 
when  she  rolled.  The  cloud  mass  thinned,  the  day  bright 
ened,  the  green  blackness  passed  into  gray  twilight,  the 
lightning  ceased,  the  thunder  moved  along  away  from 
us,  and  there  was  no  wind.  In  half  an  hour  the  sun  was 
shining,  the  thunder  muttered  intermittently  along  the 
horizon,  and  the  Elsinore  still  rolled  in  a  hush  of  air. 

"You  can't  tell,  sir,"  Mr.  Pike  growled  to  me.  "Thirty 
years  ago  I  was  dismasted  right  here  off  the  Plate  in  a  clap 
of  wind  that  come  on  just  as  that  come  on." 

It  was  the  changing  of  the  watches,  and  Mr.  Mellaire, 
who  had  come  on  the  poop  to  relieve  the  mate,  stood  be 
side  me. 

"One  of  the  nastiest  pieces  of  water  in  the  world,"  he 
concurred.  "Eighteen  years  ago  the  Plate  gave  it  to  me — 
lost  half  our  sticks,  twenty  hours  on  our  beam-ends,  cargo 
shifted,  and  foundered.  I  was  two  days  in  the  boat  before 
an  English  tramp  picked  us  up.  And  none  of  the  other 
boats  ever  was  picked  up." 

"The  Elsinore  behaved  very  well  last  night,"  I  put  in 
cheerily. 

"Oh,  hell,  that  wasn't  nothing,"  Mr.  Pike  grumbled. 
"Wait  till  you  see  a  real  pampero.  It's  a  dirty  stretch 
hereabouts,  and  I,  for  one,  '11  be  glad  when  we  get  across 
it.  I'd  sooner  have  a  dozen  Cape  Horn  snorters  than  one 
of  these.  How  about  you,  Mr.  Mellaire?" 

"Same  here,  sir,"  he  answered.  "Those  sou 'westers 
are  honest.  You  know  what  to  expect.  But  here  you 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         181 

never  know.     The  best  of  ship-masters  can  get  tripped  up 
off  the  Plate. " 


* '  As  I  Ve  found  out 

Beyond  a  doubt, ' ' 

Mr.  Pike  hummed  from  Newcomb's  Celeste,  as  he  went 
down  the  ladder. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE  sunsets  grow  more  bizarre  and  spectacular  off  this 
coast  of  the  Argentine.  Last  evening  we  had  high  clouds, 
broken  white  and  golden,  flung  disorderly,  generously,  over 
the  western  half  of  the  sky,  while  in  the  east  was  painted 
a  second  sunset — a  reflection,  perhaps,  of  the  first.  At  any 
rate,  the  eastern  sky  was  a  bank  of  pale  clouds  that  shed 
soft,  spread  rays  of  blue  and  white  upon  a  blue-gray  sea. 

And  the  evening  before  last  we  had  a  gorgeous  Arizona 
riot  in  the  west.  Bastioned  upon  the  ocean,  cloud-tier  was 
piled  upon  cloud-tier,  spacious  and  lofty,  until  we  gazed 
upon  a  Grand  Canyon  a  myriad  times  vaster  and  more 
celestial  than  that  of  the  Colorado.  The  clouds  took  on 
the  same  stratified,  serrated,  rose-rock  formation,  and  all 
the  hollows  were  filled  with  the  opal  blues  and  purple  hazes 
of  the  Painted  Lands. 

The  Sailing  Directions  say  that  these  remarkable  sun 
sets  are  due  to  the  dust  being  driven  high  into  the  air  by 
the  winds  that  blow  across  the  pampas  of  the  Argentine. 

And  our  sunset  to-night — I  am  writing  this,  at  mid 
night,  as  I  sit  propped  in  my  blankets,  wedged  by  pillows, 
while  the  Elsinore  wallows  damnably  in  a  dead  calm  and 
a  huge  swell  rolling  up  from  the  Cape  Horn  region,  where, 
it  does  seem,  gales  perpetually  blow.  But  our  sunset. 
Turner  might  have  made  it.  The  west  was  as  if  a  painter 
had  stood  off  and  slapped  brushfuls  of  gray  at  a  green 
canvas.  On  this  green  background  of  sky  the  clouds 
spilled  and  crumpled. 

But  such  a  background !  Such  an  orgy  of  green !  No 
shade  of  green  was  missing  in  the  interstices,  large  and 

182 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE         183 

small,  between  the  milky,  curdled  clouds — Nile  green  high 
up,  and  then,  in  order,  each  with  a  thousand  shades,  blue 
green,  brown  green,  gray  green,  and  a  wonderful  olive- 
green  that  tarnished  into  a  rich  bronze  green. 

During  the  display  the  rest  of  the  horizon  glowed  with 
broad  bands  of  pink,  and  blue,  and  pale  green,  and  yellow. 
A  little  later,  when  the  sun  was  quite  down,  in  the  back 
ground  of  the  curdled  clouds  smouldered  a  wine-red  mass 
of  color,  that  faded  to  red-bronze  and  tinged  all  the  fading 
greens  with  its  sanguinary  hue.  The  clouds  themselves 
flushed  to  rose  of  all  shades,  while  a  fan  of  gigantic  stream 
ers  of  pale  rose  radiated  toward  the  zenith.  These  deep 
ened  rapidly  into  flaunting  rose-flame  and  burned  long  in 
the  slow-closing  twilight. 

And  with  all  this  wonder  of  the  beauty  of  the  world 
still  glowing  my  brain  hours  afterward,  I  hear  the  snarl 
ing  of  Mr.  Pike  above  my  head,  and  the  trample  and  drag 
of  feet  as  the  men  move  from  rope  to  rope  and  pull  and 
haul.  More  weather  is  making,  and  from  the  way  sail  is 
being  taken  in  it  cannot  be  far  off. 

Yet  at  daylight  this  morning  we  were  still  wallowing  in 
the  same  dead  calm  and  sickly  swell.  Miss  West  says  the 
barometer  is  down,  but  that  the  warning  has  been  too  long, 
for  the  Plate,  to  amount  to  anything.  Pamperos  happen 
quickly  here,  and  though  the  Elsinore,  under  bare  poles  to 
her  upper-topsails,  is  prepared  for  anything,  it  may  well 
be  that  they  will  be  crowding  on  canvas  in  another  hour. 

Mr.  Pike  was  so  fooled  that  he  actually  had  set  the 
topgallant-sails,  and  the  gaskets  were  being  taken  off  the 
royals,  when  the  Samurai  came  on  deck,  strolled  back  and 
forth  a  casual  five  minutes,  then  spoke  in  an  undertone  to 
Mr.  Pike.  Mr.  Pike  did  not  like  it.  To  me,  a  tyro,  it  was 
evident  that  he  disagreed  with  his  master.  Nevertheless, 


184         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

his  voice  went  out  in  a  snarl  aloft  to  the  men  on  the  royal 
yards  to  make  all  fast  again.  Then  it  was  clewlines  and 
buntlines  and  lowering  of  yards  as  the  topgallant-sails 
were  stripped  off.  The  crojack  was  taken  in,  and  some  of 
the  outer  fore-and-aft  headsails,  whose  order  of  names  I 
can  never  remember. 

A  breeze  set  in  from  the  southwest,  blowing  briskly 
under  a  clear  sky.  I  could  see  that  Mr.  Pike  was  secretly 
pleased.  The  Samurai  had  been  mistaken.  And  each  time 
Mr.  Pike  glanced  aloft  at  the  naked  topgallant  and  royal 
yards,  I  knew  his  thought  was  that  they  might  well  be 
carrying  sail.  I  was  quite  convinced  that  the  Plate  had 
fooled  Captain  West.  So  was  Miss  West  convinced,  and, 
being  a  favored  person  like  myself,  she  frankly  told  me  so. 

" Father  will  be  setting  sail  in  half  an  hour,"  she 
prophesied. 

What  superior  weather-sense  Captain  West  possesses,  I 
know  not,  save  that  it  is  his  by  Samurai  right.  The  sky, 
as  I  have  said,  was  clear.  The  air  was  brittle — sparkling 
gloriously  in  the  windy  sun.  And  yet,  behold,  in  a  brief 
quarter  of  an  hour,  the  change  that  took  place.  I  had 
just  returned  from  a  trip  below,  and  Miss  West  was  vent 
ing  her  scorn  on  the  River  Plate  and  promising  to  go 
below  to  the  sewing  machine,  wrhen  we  heard  Mr.  Pike 
groan.  It  was  a  whimsical  groan  of  disgust,  contrition, 
and  acknowledgment  of  inferiority  before  the  master. 

"Here  comes  the  whole  River  Plate,"  was  what  he 
groaned. 

Following  his  gaze  to  the  southwest,  we  saw  it  coming. 
It  was  a  cloud-mass  that  blotted  out  the  sunlight  and  the 
day.  It  seemed  to  swell  and  belch  and  roll  over  and  over 
on  itself  as  it  advanced  with  a  rapidity  that  told  of  enor 
mous  wind  behind  it  and  in  it.  Its  speed  was  headlong, 
terrific ;  and,  beneath  it,  covering  the  sea,  advancing  with 
it,  was  a  gray  bank  of  mist. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         185 

Captain  West  spoke  to  the  mate,  who  bawled  the  order 
along,  and  the  watch,  reinforced  by  the  watch  below,  began 
clewing  up  the  mainsail  and  foresail  and  climbing  into  the 
rigging. 

"Keep  off!  Put  your  wheel  over!  Hard  over!"  Cap 
tain  West  called  gently  to  the  helmsman. 

And  the  big  wheel  spun  around,  and  the  Elsinore's  bow 
fell  off  so  that  she  might  not  be  caught  aback  by  the  on 
slaught  of  wind. 

Thunder  rode  in  that  rushing,  rolling  blackness  of  cloud ; 
and  it  was  rent  by  lightning  as  it  fell  upon  us. 

Then  it  was  rain,  wind,  obscureness  of  gloom,  and  light 
ning.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  men  on  the  lower  yards 
as  they  were  blotted  from  view  and  as  the  Elsinore  heeled 
over  and  down.  There  were  fifteen  men  of  them  to  each 
yard,  and  the  gaskets  were  well  passed  ere  we  were  struck. 
How  they  regained  the  deck  I  do  not  know,  I  never  saw; 
for  the  Elsinore,  under  only  upper  and  lower  topsails,  lay 
down  on  her  side,  her  port-rail  buried  in  the  sea,  and  did 
not  rise. 

There  was  no  maintaining  an  unsupported  upright  posi 
tion  on  that  acute  slant  of  deck.  Everybody  held  on.  Mr. 
Pike  frankly  gripped  the  poop-rail  with  both  hands,  and 
Miss  West  and  I  made  frantic  clutches  and  scrambled  for 
footing.  But  I  noticed  that  the  Samurai,  poised  lightly, 
like  a  bird  on  the  verge  of  flight,  merely  rested  one  hand 
on  the  rail.  He  gave  no  orders.  As  I  divined,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  He  waited — that  was  all — in  tran 
quillity  and  repose.  The  situation  was  simple.  Either  the 
masts  would  go,  or  the  Elsinore  would  rise  with  her  masts 
intact,  or  she  would  never  rise  again. 

In  the  meantime  she  lay  dead,  her  lee  yard-arms  almost 
touching  the  sea,  the  sea  creaming  solidly  to  her  hatch- 
combings  across  the  buried,  unseen  rail. 

The  minutes  were  as  centuries,  until  the  bow  paid  off 


186         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

and  the  Elsinore,  turning  tail  before  it,  righted  to  an  even 
keel.  Immediately  this  was  accomplished,  Captain  West 
had  her  brought  back  upon  the  wind.  And  immediately 
thereupon,  the  big  foresail  went  adrift  from  its  gaskets. 
The  shock,  or  succession  of  shocks,  to  the  ship,  from  the 
tremendous  buffeting  that  followed,  was  fearful.  It  seemed 
she  was  being  racked  to  pieces.  Master  and  mate  were 
side  by  side  when  this  happened,  and  the  expressions  on 
their  faces  typified  them.  In  neither  face  was  apprehen 
sion.  Mr.  Pike's  face  bore  a  sour  sneer  for  the  worthless 
sailors  who  had  botched  the  job.  Captain  West's  face  was 
serenely  considerative. 

Still,  nothing  was  to  be  done,  could  be  done ;  and  for  five 
minutes  the  Elsinore  was  shaken  as  in  the  maw  of  some 
gigantic  monster,  until  the  last  shreds  of  the  great  piece 
of  canvas  had  been  torn  away. 

"Our  foresail  has  departed  for  Africa,"  Miss  West 
laughed  in  my  ear. 

She  is  like  her  father,  unaware  of  fear. 

"And  now  we  may  as  well  go  below  and  be  comfort 
able,  ' '  she  said  five  minutes  later.  ' '  The  worst  is  over.  It 
will  only  be  blow,  blow,  blow,  and  a  big  sea  making." 

All  day  it  blew.  And  the  big  sea  that  arose  made  the 
Elsinore's  conduct  almost  unlivable.  My  only  comfort  was 
achieved  by  taking  to  my  bunk  and  wedging  myself  with 
pillows  buttressed  against  the  bunk's  sides  by  empty  soap 
boxes  which  Wada  arranged.  Mr.  Pike,  clinging  to  my 
door-casing  while  his  legs  sprawled  adrift  in  a  succession 
of  terrific  rolls,  paused  to  tell  me  that  it  was  a  new  one 
on  him  in  the  pampero  line.  It  was  all  wrong  from  the 
first.  It  had  not  come  on  right.  It  had  no  reason  to  be. 

He  paused  a  little  longer,  and,  in  a  casual  way,  that 
under  the  circumstances  was  ridiculously  transparent,  ex 
posed  what  was  at  ferment  in  his  mind. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOKE         187 

First  of  all  he  was  absurd  enough  to  ask  if  Possum 
showed  symptoms  of  seasickness.  Next,  he  unburdened  his 
wrath  for  the  inefficients  who  had  lost  the  foresail,  and 
sympathized  with  the  sail-makers  for  the  extra  work 
thrown  upon  them.  Then  he  asked  permission  to  borrow 
one  of  my  books,  and,  clinging  to  my  bunk,  selected  Buch- 
ner's  " Force  and  Matter"  from  my  shelf,  carefully  wedg 
ing  the  empty  space  with  the  doubled  magazine  I  use  for 
that  purpose. 

Still  he  was  loath  to  depart,  and,  cudgeling  his  brains  for 
a  pretext,  he  set  up  a  rambling  discourse  on  River  Plate 
weather.  And  all  the  time  I  kept  wondering  what  was 
behind  it  all.  At  last  it  came. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Pathurst,"  he  remarked,  "do  you 
happen  to  remember  how  many  years  ago  Mr.  Mellaire  said 
it  was  that  he  was  dismasted  and  foundered  off  here  ? ' ' 

I  caught  his  drift  on  the  instant. 

"Eight  years  ago,  wasn't  it?"  I  lied. 

Mr.  Pike  let  this  sink  in  and  slowly  digested  it,  while 
the  Elsinore  was  guilty  of  three  huge  rolls  down  to  port 
and  back  again. 

"Now  I  wonder  what  ship  was  sunk  off  the  Plate  eight 
years  ago?"  he  communed,  as  if  with  himself.  "I  guess 
I'll  have  to  ask  Mr.  Mellaire  her  name.  You  can  search 
me  for  all  any  I  can  recollect." 

He  thanked  me  with  unwonted  elaborateness  for  * '  Force 
and  Matter, ' '  of  which  I  knew  he  would  never  read  a  line, 
and  felt  his  way  to  the  door.  Here  he  hung  on  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  and  most  accidental  idea. 

"Now  it  wasn't,  by  any  chance,  that  he  said  eighteen 
years  ago?"  he  queried. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Eight  years  ago,"  I  said.  "That's  the  way  I  remem 
ber  it,  though  why  I  should  remember  it  at  all  I  don't 


188         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOKE 

know.  But  that  is  what  he  said, ' '  I  went  on  with  increas 
ing  confidence.  "Eight  years  ago.  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Mr.  Pike  looked  at  me  ponderingly,  and  waited  until 
the  Elsinore  had  fairly  righted  for  an  instant  ere  he  took 
his  departure  down  the  hall. 

I  think  I  have  followed  the  working  of  his  mind.  I  have 
long  since  learned  that  his  memory  of  ships,  officers, 
cargoes,  gales,  and  disasters  is  remarkable.  He  is  a  veri 
table  encyclopedia  of  the  sea.  Also,  it  is  patent  that  he 
has  equipped  himself  with  Sidney  Waltham's  history.  As 
yet,  he  does  not  dream  that  Mr.  Mellaire  is  Sidney  Wal- 
tham,  and  he  is  merely  wondering  if  Mr.  Mellaire  was  a 
shipmate  of  Sidney  "Waltham  eighteen  years  ago  in  the  ship 
lost  off  the  Plate. 

In  the  meantime,  I  shall  never  forgive  Mr.  Mellaire  for 
this  slip  he  has  made.  He  should  have  been  more  careful. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

AN  abominable  night!  A  wonderful  night!  Sleep?  I 
suppose  I  did  sleep,  in  catnaps,  but  I  swear  I  heard  every 
bell  struck  until  three-thirty.  Then  came  a  change,  an 
easement.  No  longer  was  it  a  stubborn  loggy  fight  against 
pressures.  The  Elsinore  moved.  I  could  feel  her  slip,  and 
slide,  and  send,  and  soar.  Whereas  before  she  had  been 
flung  continually  down  to  port,  she  now  rolled  as  far  to 
one  side  as  to  the  other. 

I  knew  what  had  taken  place.  Instead  of  remaining 
hove  to  on  the  pampero,  Captain  West  had  turned  tail  and 
was  running  before  it.  This,  I  understood,  meant  a  really 
serious  storm,  for  the  northeast  was  the  last  direction  in 
which  Captain  West  desired  to  go.  But  at  any  rate  the 
movement,  though  wilder,  was  easier,  and  I  slept.  I  was 
awakened  at  five  by  the  thunder  of  seas  that  fell  aboard, 
rushed  down  the  main  deck,  and  crashed  against  the  cabin 
wall.  Through  my  open  door  I  could  see  water  swashing 
up  and  down  the  hall,  while  half  a  foot  of  water  creamed 
and  curdled  from  under  my  bunk  across  the  floor  each 
time  the  ship  rolled  to  starboard. 

The  steward  brought  me  my  coffee,  and,  wedged  by 
boxes  and  pillows,  like  an  equilibrist,  I  sat  up  and  drank 
it.  Luckily  I  managed  to  finish  it  in  time,  for  a  succession 
of  terrific  rolls  emptied  one  of  my  book-shelves.  Possum, 
crawling  upward  from  my  feet  under  the  covered  way  of 
my  bed,  yapped  with  terror  as  the  seas  smashed  and  thun 
dered  and  as  the  avalanche  of  books  descended  upon  us. 
And  I  could  not  but  grin  when  the  "Paste  Board  Crown" 
smote  me  on  the  head,  while  the  puppy  was  knocked  gasp 
ing  with  Chesterton's  "What's  Wrong  with  the  World?" 

189 


190         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  I  queried  of  the  steward, 
who  was  helping  to  set  us  and  the  books  to  rights. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  his  bright  slant  eyes  were 
very  bright  as  he  replied : 

"Many  times  I  see  like  this.  Me  old  man.  Many  times 
I  see  more  bad.  Too  much  wind,  too  much  work.  Rotten 
damn  bad." 

I  could  guess  that  the  scene  on  deck  was  a  spectacle, 
and  at  six  o'clock,  as  gray  light  showed  through  my  ports 
in  the  intervals  when  they  were  not  submerged,  I  essayed 
the  sideboard  of  my  bunk  like  a  gymnast,  captured  my 
careering  slippers,  and  shuddered  as  I  thrust  my  bare  feet 
into  their  chill  sogginess.  I  did  not  wait  to  dress.  Merely 
in  pajamas  I  headed  for  the  poop,  Possum  wailing  dismally 
at  my  desertion. 

It  was  a  feat  to  travel  the  narrow  halls.  Time  and  again 
I  paused  and  held  on  until  my  finger-tips  hurt.  In  the 
moments  of  easement,  I  made  progress.  Yet  I  miscalcu 
lated.  The  foot  of  the  broad  stairway  to  the  chart-house 
rested  on  a  cross-hall  a  dozen  feet  in  length.  Over-confi 
dence  and  an  unusually  violent  antic  of  the  Elsinore  caused 
the  disaster.  She  flung  down  to  starboard  with  such  sud 
denness  and  at  such  a  pitch  that  the  flooring  seemed  to  go 
but  from  under  me  and  I  hurtled  helplessly  down  the 
incline.  I  missed  a  frantic  clutch  at  the  newel-post,  flung 
up  my  arm  in  time  to  save  my  face,  and,  most  fortunately, 
whirled  half  about,  and,  still  falling,  impacted  with  my 
shoulder  muscle-pad  on  Captain  West's  door. 

Youth  will  have  its  way.  So  will  a  ship  in  a  sea.  And 
so  will  a  hundred  and  seventy  pounds  of  a  man.  The 
beautiful,  hardwood  door  panel  splintered,  the  latch  fetched 
away,  and  I  broke  the  nails  of  the  four  fingers  of  my  right 
hand  in  a  futile  grab  at  the  flying  door,  marring  the  pol 
ished  surface  with  four  parallel  scratches.  I  kept  right 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         191 

on,  erupting  into  Captain  West's  spacious  room  with  the 
big  brass  bed. 

Miss  West,  swathed  in  a  woolen  dressing  gown,  her  eyes 
heavy  still  with  sleep,  her  hair  glorious  and  for  the  once 
ungroomed,  clinging  in  the  doorway  that  gave  entrance  on 
the  main  cabin,  met  my  startled  gaze  with  an  equally 
startled  gaze. 

It  was  no  time  for  apologies.  I  kept  right  on  my  mad 
way,  caught  the  foot-stanchion,  and  was  whipped  around 
in  half  a  circle  flat  upon  Captain  West's  brass  bed. 

Miss  West  was  beginning  to  laugh. 

"Come  right  in,"  she  gurgled. 

A  score  of  retorts,  all  deliciously  inadvisable,  tickled  my 
tongue.  So  I  said  nothing,  contenting  myself  with  hold 
ing  on  with  my  left  hand  while  I  nursed  my  stinging  right 
hand  under  my  arm-pit.  Beyond  her,  across  the  floor  of 
the  main  cabin,  I  saw  the  steward  in  pursuit  of  Captain 
West's  Bible  and  a  sheaf  of  Miss  West's  music.  And  as 
she  gurgled  and  laughed  at  me,  beholding  her  in  this  in 
timacy  of  storm,  the  thought  flashed  through  my  brain: 
She  is  a  woman.  She  is  desirable. 

Now  did  she  sense  this  fleeting,  unuttered  flash  of  mine  ? 
I  know  not,  save  that  her  laughter  left  her,  and  long  con 
ventional  training  asserted  itself  as  she  said : 

"I  just  knew  everything  was  adrift  in  father's  room. 
He  hasn't  been  in  it  all  night.  I  could  hear  things  rolling 
around.  .  .  .  What  is  wrong?  Are  you  hurt?" 

"Stubbed  my  fingers,  that's  all,"  I  answered,  looking 
at  my  broken  nails  and  standing  gingerly  upright. 

"My,  that  was  a  roll,"  she  sympathized. 

"Yes;  I'd  started  to  go  upstairs,"  I  said,  "and  not  to 
turn  into  your  father's  bed.  I'm  afraid  I've  ruined  the 
door." 

Came  another  series  of  great  rolls.  I  sat  down  on  the 
bed  and  held  on.  Miss  West,  secure  in  the  doorway,  began 


192         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

gurgling  again,  while  beyond,  across  the  cabin  carpet,  the 
steward  shot  past,  embracing  a  small  writing  desk  that  had 
evidently  carried  away  from  its  fastenings  when  he  seized 
hold  of  it  for  support.  More  seas  smashed  and  crashed 
against  the  for'ard  wall  of  the  cabin;  and  the  steward, 
failing  of  lodgment,  shot  back  across  the  carpet,  still  hold 
ing  the  desk  from  harm. 

Taking  advantage  of  favoring  spells,  I  managed  to  effect 
my  exit  and  gain  the  newel-post  ere  the  next  series  of  rolls 
came.  And  as  I  clung  on  and  waited,  I  could  not  .forget 
what  I  had  just  seen.  Vividly  under  my  eyelids  burned 
the  picture  oi  Miss  West's  sleep-laden  eyes,  her  hair,  and 
all  the  softness  of  her.  A  woman  and  desirable  kept  drum 
ming  in  my  brain. 

But  I  forgot  all  this,  when,  nearly  at  the  "top,  I  was 
thrown  up  the  hill  of  the  stairs  as  if  it  had  suddenly 
become  downhill.  My  feet  flew  from  stair  to  stair  to  escape 
falling,  and  I  flew,  or  fell,  apparently  upward,  until,  at 
the  top,  I  hung  on  for  dear  life  while  the  stern  of  the 
Els-more  flung  skyward  on  some  mighty  surge. 

Such  antics  of  so  huge  a  ship !  The  old  stereotyped 
"toy"  describes  her;  for  toy  she  was,  the  sheerest  splinter 
of  a  plaything  in  the  grip  of  the  elements.  And  yet,  de 
spite  this  overwhelming  sensation  of  microscopic  helpless 
ness,  I  was  aware  of  a  sense  of  surety.  There  was  the 
Samurai.  Informed  with  his  will  and  wisdom,  the  Elsinore 
was  no  catspaw.  Everything  was  ordered,  controlled.  She 
was  doing  what  he  ordained  her  to  do,  and,  no  matter 
what  storm-Titans  bellowed  about  her  and  buffeted  her,  she 
would  continue  to  do  what  he  ordained  her  to  do. 

I  glanced  into  the  chart-room.  There  he  sat,  leaned 
back  in  a  screw-chair,  his  sea-booted  legs,  wedged  against 
the  settee,  holding  him  in  place  in  the  most  violent  rolls. 
His  black  oilskin  coat  glistened  in  the  lamplight  with  a 
myriad  drops  of  ocean  that  advertised  a  recent  return 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         193 

from  deck.  His  sou'wester,  black  and  glistening,  was  like 
the  helmet  of  some  legendary  hero.  He  was  smoking  a 
cigar,  and  he  smiled  and  greeted  me.  But  he  seemed  very 
tired  and  very  old — old  with  wisdom,  however,  not  weak 
ness.  The  flesh  of  his  face,  the  pink  pigment  quite  washed 
and  worn  away,  was  more  transparent  than  ever ;  and  yet, 
never  was  he  more  serene,  never  more  the  master  absolute 
of  our  tiny,  fragile  world.  The  age  that  showed  in  him 
was  not  a  matter  of  terrestrial  years.  It  was  ageless, 
passionless,  beyond  human.  Never  had  he  appeared  so 
great  to  me,  so  far  remote,  so  much  a  spirit  visitant. 

And  he  cautioned  and  advised  me,  in  silver-mellow  benefi 
cent  voice,  as  I  essayed  the  venture  of  opening  the  chart- 
house  door  to  gain  outside.  He  knew  the  moment,  al 
though  I  never  could  have  guessed  it  for  myself,  and  gave 
the  word  that  enabled  me  to  win  the  poop. 

Water  was  everywhere.  The  Elsinore  was  rushing 
through  a  blurring  whir  of  water.  Seas  creamed  and 
licked  the  poop-deck  edge,  now  to  starboard,  now  to  port. 
High  in  the  air,  over-towering  and  perilously  down- 
toppling  following-seas  pursued  our  stern.  The  air  was 
filled  with  spindrift  like  a  fog  or  spray.  No  officer  of  the 
watch  was  in  sight.  The  poop  was  deserted,  save  for  two 
helmsmen  in  streaming  oilskins  under  the  half-shelter  of 
the  open  wheel-house.  I  nodded  good  morning  to  them. 

One  was  Tom  Spink,  the  elderly  but  keen  and  dependable 
English  sailor.  The  other  was  Bill  Quigley,  one  of  a  fore 
castle  group  of  three  that  herded  uniquely  together,  though 
the  other  two,  Frank  Fitzgibbon  and  Richard  Giller,  were 
in  the  second  mate's  watch.  The  three  had  proved  handy 
with  their  fists,  and  clannish;  they  had  fought  pitched 
forecastle  battles  with  the  gangster  clique  and  won  a  sort 
of  neutrality  of  independence  for  themselves.  They  were 
not  exactly  sailors — Mr.  Mellaire  sneeringly  called  them  the 


194         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

''bricklayers" — but  they  had  successfully  refused  sub 
servience  to  the  gangster  crowd. 

To  cross  the  deck  from  the  chart-house  to  the  break  of 
the  poop  was  no  slight  feat,  but  I  managed  it  and  hung 
on  to  the  railing  while  the  wind  stung  my  flesh  with  the 
flappings  of  my  pajamas.  At  this  moment,  and  for  the 
moment,  the  Elsinore  righted  to  an  even  keel,  and  dashed 
along  and  down  the  avalanching  face  of  a  wave.  And  as 
she  thus  righted,  her  deck  was  filled  with  water  level  from 
rail  to  rail.  Above  this  flood,  or  knee-deep  in  it,  Mr.  Pike 
and  half  a  dozen  sailors  were  bunched  on  the  fife-rail  of 
the  mizzenmast.  The  carpenter,  too,  was  there,  with  a 
couple  of  assistants. 

The  next  roll  spilled  half  a  thousand  tons  of  water  out 
board  sheer  over  the  starboard  rail,  while  all  the  starboard 
ports  opened  automatically  and  gushed  huge  streams.  Then 
came  the  opposite  roll  to  port,  with  a  clanging  shut  of  the 
iron  doors;  and  a  hundred  tons  of  sea  sloshed  outboard 
across  the  port-rail,  while  all  the  iron  doors  on  that  side 
opened  wide  and  gushed.  And  all  this  time,  it  must  not 
be  forgotten,  the  Elsinore  was  dashing  ahead  through  the 
sea. 

The  only  sail  she  carried  was  three  upper-topsails.  Not 
the  tiniest  triangle  of  headsail  was  on  her.  I  had  never 
seen  her  with  so  little  wind-surface,  and  the  three  narrow 
strips  of  canvas,  bellied  to  the  seemingness  of  sheet-iron 
with  the  pressure  of  the  wind,  drove  her  before  the  gale 
at  astonishing  speed. 

As  the  water  on  the  deck  subsided,  the  men  on  the  fife- 
rail  left  their  refuge.  One  group,  led  by  the  redoubtable 
Mr.  Pike,  strove  to  capture  a  mass  of  planks  and  twisted 
steel.  For  the  moment  I  did  not  recognize  what  it  was. 
The  carpenter,  with  two  men,  sprang  upon  Number  Three 
hatch  and  worked  hurriedly  and  fearfully.  And  I  knew 
why  Captain  West  had  turned  tail  to  the  storm.  Number 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         195 

Three  hatch  was  a  wreck.  Among  other  things,  the  great 
timber,  called  the  "strong-back,"  was  broken.  He  had 
had  to  run,  or  founder.  Before  our  decks  were  swept 
again,  I  could  make  out  the  carpenter's  emergency  repairs. 
With  fresh  timbers,  he  was  bolting,  lashing,  and  wedging 
Number  Three  hatch  into  some  sort  of  tightness. 

When  the  Elsinore  dipped  her  port-rail  under  and 
scooped  several  hundred  tons  of  South  Atlantic,  and  then, 
immediately,  rolling  her  starboard  rail  under,  had  another 
hundred  tons  of  breaking  sea  fall  in  board  upon  her,  all 
the  men  forsook  everything  and  scrambled  for  life  upon 
the  fife-rail.  In  the  bursting  spray  they  were  quite  hidden ; 
and  then  I  saw  them  and  counted  them  all  as  they  emerged 
into  view.  Again  they  waited  for  the  water  to  subside. 

The  mass  of  wreckage  pursued  by  Mr.  Pike  and  his  men 
ground  a  hundred  feet  along  the  deck  for'ard,  and,  as  the 
Elsinore' 's  stern  sank  down  in  some  abyss,  ground  back 
again  and  smashed  up  against  the  cabin  wall.  I  identified 
this  stuff  as  part  of  the  bridge.  That  portion  which 
spanned  from  the  mizzenmast  to  the  'midship  house  was 
missing,  while  the  starboard  boat  on  the  'midship  house 
was  a  splintered  mess. 

Watching  the  struggle  to  capture  and  subdue  the  section 
of  bridge,  I  was  reminded  of  Victor  Hugo's  splendid  de 
scription  of  the  sailor's  battle  with  a  ship's  gun  gone 
adrift  in  a  night  of  storm.  But  there  was  a  difference. 
I  found  that  Hugo's  narrative  had  stirred  me  more  pro 
foundly  than  was  I  stirred  by  this  actual  struggle  before 
my  eyes. 

I  have  repeatedly  said  that  the  sea  makes  one  hard.  I 
now  realized  how  hard  I  had  become  as  I  stood  there  at 
the  break  of  the  poop  in  my  wind-whipped,  spray-soaked 
pajamas.  I  felt  no  solicitude  for  the  forecastle  humans 
who  struggled  in  peril  of  their  lives  beneath  me.  They 
did  not  count.  Ay — I  was  even  curious  to  see  what  might 


196         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

happen,  did  they  get  caught  by  those  crashing  avalanches 
of  sea  ere  they  could  gain  the  safety  of  the  fife-rail. 

And  I  saw.  Mr.  Pike,  in  the  lead,  of  course,  up  to  his 
waist  in  rushing  water,  dashed  in,  caught  the  flying  wreck 
age  with  a  turn  of  rope,  and  fetched  it  up  short  with  a 
turn  around  one  of  the  port  mizzen-shrouds.  The  Elsinore 
flung  down  to  port,  and  a  solid  wall  of  down-toppling 
green  upreared  a  dozen  feet  above  the  rail.  The  men  fled 
to  the  fife-rail.  But  Mr.  Pike,  holding  his  turn,  held  on, 
looked  squarely  into  the  wall  of  the  wave,  and  received  the 
downfall.  He  emerged,  still  holding  by  the  turn  the  cap 
tured  bridge. 

The  feeble-minded  faun  (the  stone-deaf  man)  led  the 
way  to  Mr.  Pike's  assistance,  followed  by  Tony,  the  sui 
cidal  Greek.  Paddy  was  next,  and  in  order  came  Shorty, 
Henry  the  training  ship  boy,  and  Nancy,  last,  of  course, 
and  looking  as  if  he  were  going  to  execution. 

The  deck-water  was  no  more  than  knee-deep,  though 
rushing  with  torrential  force,  when  Mr.  Pike  and  the  six 
men  lifted  the  section  of  bridge  and  started  for'ard  with 
it.  They  swayed  and  staggered,  but  managed  to  keep 
going. 

The  carpenter  saw  the  impending  oeean-mountain  first. 
I  saw  him  cry  to  his  own  men  and  then  to  Mr.  Pike  ere  he 
fled  to  the  fife-rail.  But  Mr.  Pike's  men  had  no  chance. 
Abreast  of  the  'midship  house,  on  the  starboard  side,  fully 
fifteen  feet  above  the  rail  and  twenty  above  the  deck,  the/ 
sea  fell  on  board.  The  top  of  the  'midship  house  was  swept 
clean  of  the  splintered  boat.  The  water,  impacting  against 
the  side  of  the  house,  spouted  skyward  as  high  as  the 
crojack  yard.  And  all  this,  in  addition  to  the  main  bulk 
of  the  wave,  swept  and  descended  upon  Mr.  Pike  and  his 
men. 

They  disappeared.  The  bridge  disappeared.  The  Elsi 
nore  rolled  to  port  and  dipped  her  deck  full  from  rail  to 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         197 

rail.  Next,  she  plunged  down  by  the  head,  and  all  this 
mass  of  water  surged  forward.  Through  the  creaming, 
foaming  surface,  now  and  then  emerged  an  arm,  or  a  head, 
or  a  back,  while  cruel  edges  of  jagged  plank  and  twisted 
steel  rods  advertised  that  the  bridge  was  turning  over  and 
over.  I  wondered  what  men  were  beneath  it  and  what 
mauling  they  were  receiving. 

And  yet  these  men  did  not  count.  I  was  aware  of  anx 
iety  only  for  Mr.  Pike.  He,  in  a  way,  socially,  was  of  my 
caste  and  class.  He  and  I  belonged  aft  in  the  high  place; 
ate  at  the  same  table.  I  was  acutely  desirous  that  he 
should  not  be  hurt  or  killed.  The  rest  did  not  matter. 
They  were  not  of  my  world.  I  imagine  the  old-time  skip 
pers,  on  the  middle  passage,  felt  much  the  same  toward 
their  slave-cargoes  in  the  fetid  'tween-decks. 

The  Elsinore's  bow  tilted  skyward  while  her  stern  fell 
into  a  foaming  valley.  Not  a  man  had  gained  his  feet. 
Bridge  and  men  swept  back  toward  me  and  fetched  up 
at  the  mizzen-shrouds.  And  then  that  prodigious,  in 
credible  old  man  appeared  out  of  the  water,  on  his  two 
legs,  upright,  dragging  with  him,  a  man  in  each  hand,  the 
helpless  forms  of  Nancy  and  the  Faun.  My  heart  leapt  at 
beholding  this  mighty  figure  of  a  man — killer  and  slave- 
driver,  it  is  true,  but  who  sprang  first  into  the  teeth  of 
danger  so  that  his  slaves  might  follow,  and  who  emerged 
with  a  half-drowned  slave  in  either  hand. 

I  knew  augustness  and  pride  as  I  gazed — pride  that  my 
eyes  were  blue,  like  his ;  that  my  skin  was  blond,  like  his ; 
that  my  place  was  aft  with  him,  and  with  the  Samurai,  in 
the  high  place  of  government  and  command.  I  nearly  wept 
with  the  chill  of  pride  that  was  akin  to  awe  and  that 
tingled  and  bristled  along  my  spinal  column  and  in  my 
brain.  As  for  the  rest — the  weaklings  and  the  rejected, 
and  the  dark-pigmented  things,  the  half-castes,  the  mon 
grel-bloods,  and  the  dregs  of  long-conquered  races — how 


198         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

could  they  count  ?  My  heels  were  iron  as  I  gazed  on  them 
in  their  peril  and  weakness.  Lord !  Lord !  For  ten  thou 
sand  generations  and  centuries  we  had  stamped  upon  their 
faces  and  enslaved  them  to  the  toil  of  our  will. 

Again  the  Elsinore  rolled  to  starboard  and  to  port,  while 
the  spume  spouted  to  our  lower  yards  and  a  thousand  tons 
of  South  Atlantic  surged  across  from  rail  to  rail.  And 
again  all  were  down  and  under,  with  jagged  plank  and 
twisted  steel  overriding  them.  And  again  that  amazing 
blond-skinned  giant  emerged,  on  his  two  legs  upstanding, 
a  broken  waif  like  a  rat  in  either  hand.  He  forced  his  way 
through  rushing,  waist-high  water,  deposited  his  burdens 
with  the  carpenter  on  the  fife-rail,  and  returned  to  drag 
Larry  reeling  to  his  feet  and  help  him  to  the  fife-rail.  Out 
of  the  wash,  Tony,  the  Greek,  crawled  on  hands  and  knees 
and  sank  down  helplessly  at  the  fife-rail.  There  was 
nothing  suicidal  now  in  his  mood.  Struggle  as  he  would, 
he  could  not  lift  himself  until  the  mate,  gripping  his  oil 
skin  at  the  collar,  with  one  hand  flung  him  through  the  air 
into  the  carpenter's  arms. 

Next  came  Shorty,  his  face  streaming  blood,  one  arm 
hanging  useless,  his  sea-boots  stripped  from  him.  Mr. 
Pike  pitched  him  into  the  fife-rail,  and  returned  for  the 
last  man.  It  was  Henry,  the  training  ship  boy.  Him  I 
had  seen,  unstruggling,  motionless,  show  at  the  surface  like 
a  drowned  man  and  sink  again  as  the  flood  surged  aft  and 
smashed  him  against  the  cabin.  Mr.  Pike,  shoulder-deep, 
twice  beaten  to  his  knees  and  under  by  bursting  seas, 
caught  the  lad,  shouldered  him,  and  carried  him  away 
for  'ard. 

An  hour  later,  in  the  cabin,  I  encountered  Mr.  Pike 
going  in  to  breakfast.  He  had  changed  his  clothes,  and 
he  had  shaved.  Now  how  could  one  treat  a  hero  such  as 
he,  save  as  I  treated  him  when  I  remarked  off-handedly 
that  he  must  have  had  a  lively  watch? 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         199 

"My,"  he  answered,  equally  off-handedly,  "I  did  get  a 
prime  soaking." 

That  was  all.  He  had  had  no  time  to  see  me  at  the 
poop-rail.  It  was  merely  the  day's  work,  the  ship's  work, 
the  MAN'S  work — all  capitals,  if  you  please,  in  MAN. 
I  was  the  only  one  aft  who  knew,  and  I  knew  because  1 
had  chanced  to  see.  Had  I  not  been  on  the  poop  at  that 
early  hour  no  one  aft  ever  would  have  known  those  gray 
storm-morning  deeds  of  his. 

"Anybody  hurt?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  some  of  the  men  got  wet.  But  no  bones  broke. 
Henry '11  be  laid  off  for  a  day.  He  got  turned  over  in  a 
sea  and  bashed  his  head.  And  Shorty's  got  a  wrenched 
shoulder,  I  think. — But,  say,  we  got  Davis  into  the  top 
bunk !  The  seas  filled  him  full  and  he  had  to  climb  for  it. 
He 's  all  awash  and  wet  now,  and  you  oughta  seen  me  pray 
ing  for  more. ' '  He  paused  and  sighed.  ' '  I  'm  getting  old, 
I  guess.  I  oughta  wring  his  neck,  but  somehow  I  ain't 
got  the  gumption.  Just  the  same,  he'll  be  overside  before 
we  get  in." 

"A  month's  wages  against  a  pound  of  tobacco  he 
won't,"  I  challenged. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Pike  slowly.  "But  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
will  do.  I  '11  bet  you  a  pound  of  tobacco  even,  or  a  month 's 
wages  even,  that  I'll  have  the  pleasure  of  putting  a  sack 
of  coal  to  his  feet  that  never  will  come  off. ' ' 

"Done,"  said  I. 

"Done,"  said  Mr.  Pike.  "And  now  I  guess  I'll  get  a 
bite  to  eat." 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  more  I  see  of  Miss  West  the  more  she  pleases  me. 
Explain  it  in  terms  of  propinquity,  or  isolation,  or  what 
ever  you  will;  I,  at  least,  do  not  attempt  explanation.  I 
know  only  that  she  is  a  woman  and  desirable.  And  I  am 
rather  proud,  in  a  way,  to  find  that  I  am  just  a  man  like 
any  man.  The  midnight  oil,  and  the  relentless  pursuit  I 
have  endured  in  the  past  from  the  whole  tribe  of  women, 
have  not,  I  am  glad  to  say,  utterly  spoiled  me. 

I  am  obsessed  by  that  phrase — a  woman  and  desirable. 
It  beats  in  my  brain,  in  my  thought.  I  go  out  of  my  way 
to  steal  a  glimpse  of  Miss  West  through  a  cabin  door  or 
vista  of  hall  when  she  does  not  know  I  am  looking.  A 
woman  is  a  wonderful  thing.  A  woman's  hair  is  wonder 
ful.  A  woman's  softness  is  a  magic. — Oh,  I  know  them  for 
what  they  are,  and  yet  this  very  knowledge  makes  them 
only  the  more  wonderful.  I  know — I  would  stake  my 
soul — that  Miss  West  has  considered  me  as  a  mate  a  thou 
sand  times  for  once  that  I  have  so  considered  her.  And 
yet — she  is  a  woman  and  desirable. 

And  I  find  myself  continually  reminded  of  Richard  Le 
Gallienne  's  inimitable  quatrain : 

' '  Were  I  a  woman,  I  would  all  day  long 
Sing  my  own  beauty  in  some  holy  song, 
Bend  low  before  it,  hushed  and  half  afraid, 
And  say  I  '  am  a  woman '  all  day  long. 7 ' 

Let  me  advise  all  philosophers  suffering  from  world- 
sickness  to  take  a  long  sea  voyage  with  a  woman  like  Miss 
West. 

200 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOKE         201 

In  this  narrative  I  shall  call  her  "Miss  West"  no  more. 
She  has  ceased  to  be  Miss  West.  She  is  Margaret.  I  do 
not  think  of  her  as  Miss  West.  I  think  of  her  as  Margaret. 
It  is  a  pretty  word,  a  woman-word.  What  poet  must  have 
created  it !  Margaret !  I  never  tire  of  it.  My  tongue  is 
enamored  of  it.  Margaret  West !  What  a  name  to  con 
jure  with !  A  name  provocative  of  dreams  and  mighty 
connotations.  The  history  of  our  westward-faring  race  is 
written  in  it.  There  is  pride  in  it,  and  dominion,  and 
adventure,  and  conquest.  When  I  murmur  it  I  see  visions 
of  lean,  beaked  ships,  of  winged  helmets,  and  heels  iron- 
shod  of  restless  men,  royal  lovers,  royal  adventurers,  royal 
fighters.  Yes,  and  even  now,  in  these  latter  days  when 
the  sun  consumes  us,  still  we  sit  in  the  high  seat  of  govern 
ment  and  command. 

Oh — and  by  the  way — she  is  twenty-four  years  old.  I 
asked  Mr.  Pike  the  date  of  the  Dixie's  collision  with  the 
river  steamer  in  San  Francisco  Bay.  This  occurred  in 
1901.  Margaret  was  twelve  years  old  at  the  time.  This 
is  1913.  Blessings  on  the  head  of  the  man  who  invented 
arithmetic!  She  is  twenty- four.  Her  name  is  Margaret, 
and  she  is  desirable. 

There  are  so  many  things  to  tell  about.  Where  and 
how  this  mad  voyage,  with  a  mad  crew,  will  end  is  beyond 
all  surmise.  But  the  Elsinore  drives  on,  and  day  by  day 
her  history  is  bloodily  written.  And  while  murder  is  done, 
and  while  the  whole  floating  drama  moves  toward  the  bleak 
southern  ocean  and  the  icy  blasts  of  Cape  Horn,  I  sit  in 
the  high  place  with  the  masters,  unafraid,  I  am  proud  to 
say,  in  an  ecstasy,  I  am  proud  to  say,  and  I  murmur  over 
and  over  to  myself — Margaret,  a  woman;  Margaret,  and 
desirable. 

But  to  resume.  It  is  the  first  day  of  June.  Ten  days 
have  passed  since  the  pampero.  When  the  strong  back  on 


202         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

Number  Three  hatch  was  repaired,  Captain  West  came 
back  on  the  wind,  hove  to,  and  rode  out  the  gale.  Since 
then,  in  calm,  and  fog,  and  damp,  and  storm,  we  have  won 
south  until  to-day  we  are  almost  abreast  of  the  Falklands. 
The  coast  of  the  Argentine  lies  to  the  West,  below  the  sea- 
line,  and  some  time  this  morning  we  crossed  the  fiftieth 
parallel  of  south  latitude.  Here  begins  the  passage  of 
Cape  Horn,  for  so  it  is  reckoned  by  the  navigators — fifty 
south  in  the  Atlantic  to  fifty  south  in  the  Pacific. 

And  yet  all  is  well  with  us  in  the  matter  of  weather. 
The  Elsinore  slides  along  with  favoring  winds.  Daily  it 
grows  colder.  The  great  cabin  stove  roars  and  is  white- 
hot,  and  all  the  connecting  doors  are  open,  so  that  the 
whole  after  region  of  the  ship  is  warm  and  comfortable. 
But  on  the  deck  the  air  bites,  and  Margaret  and  I  wear 
mittens  as  we  promenade  the  poop  or  go  for'ard  along 
the  repaired  bridge  to  see  the  chickens  on  the  'midship 
house. — The  poor,  wretched  creatures  of  instinct  and  cli 
mate!  Behold,  as  they  approach  the  southern  mid- winter 
of  the  Horn,  when  they  have  need  of  all  their  feathers, 
they  proceed  to  moult,  because,  forsooth,  this  is  the  summer 
time  in  the  land  they  came  from.  Or  is  moulting  deter 
mined  by  the  time  of  year  they  happen  to  be  born?  I 
shall  have  to  look  into  this.  Margaret  will  know. 

Yesterday  ominous  preparations  were  made  for  the 
passage  of  the  Horn.  All  the  braces  were  taken  from  the 
main  deck  pin-rails  and  geared  and  arranged  so  that  they 
may  be  worked  from  the  tops  of  the  houses. 

Thus,  the  fore-braces  run  to  the  top  of  the  forecastle, 
the  main-braces  to  the  top  of  the  'midship  house,  and  the 
mizzen-braces  to  the  poop.  It  is  evident  that  they  expect 
our  main  deck  frequently  to  be  filled  with  water.  So  evi 
dent  is  it  that  a  laden  ship  when  in  big  seas  is  like  a  log 
awash,  that  fore  and  aft,  on  both  sides,  along  the  deck, 
shoulder-high,  life-lines  have  been  rigged.  Also,  the  two 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         203 

iron  doors,  on  port  and  starboard,  that  open  from  the  cabin 
directly  upon  the  main  deck,  have  been  barricaded  and 
calked.  Not  until  we  are  in  the  Pacific  and  flying  north 
will  these  doors  open  again. 

And  while  we  prepare  to  battle  around  the  stormiest 
headland  in  the  world,  our  situation  on  board  grows  darker. 
This  morning  Petro  Marinkovich,  a  sailor  in  Mr.  Mellaire's 
watch,  was  found  dead  on  Number  One  hatch.  The  body 
bore  several  knife-wounds  and  the  throat  was  cut.  It  was 
palpably  done  by  some  one  or  several  of  the  forecastle 
hands;  but  not  a  word  can  be  elicited.  Those  who  are 
guilty  of  it  are  silent,  of  course;  while  others  who  may 
chance  to  know  are  afraid  to  speak. 

Before  midday  the  body  was  overside  with  the  cus 
tomary  sack  of  coal.  Already  the  man  is  a  past  episode. 
But  the  humans  for'ard  are  tense  with  expectancy  of  what 
is  to  come.  I  strolled  for'ard  this  afternoon,  and  noted 
for  the  first  time  a  distinct  hostility  toward  me.  They 
recognize  that  I  belong  with  the  after-guard  in  the  high 
place.  Oh,  nothing  was  said;  but  it  was  patent  by  the 
way  almost  every  man  looked  at  me,  or  refused  to  look  at 
me.  Only  Mulligan  Jacobs  and  Charles  Davis  were  out 
spoken. 

"Good  riddance,"  said  Mulligan  Jacobs.  "The  Guinea 
didn't  have  the  spunk  of  a  louse.  And  he's  better  off, 
ain't  he?  He  lived  dirty,  an'  he  died  dirty,  an'  now  he's 
over  an'  done  with  the  whole  dirty  game.  There's  men  on 
board  that  oughta  wish  they  was  as  lucky  as  him.  Theirs 
is  still  a-coming  to  'em." 

"You  mean  ...   ?"  I  queried. 

"Whatever  you  want  to  think  I  mean,"  the  twisted 
wretch  grinned  malevolently  into  my  face. 

Charles  Davis,  when  I  peeped  into  his  iron  room,  was 
exuberant. 

"A  pretty  tale  for  the  court  in  Seattle,"  he  exulted. 


204         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"It'll  only  make  my  case  that  much  stronger.  And  wait 
till  the  reporters  get  hold  of  it!  The  hell-ship  Elsinore! 
They'll  have  pretty  pickin's!" 

"I  haven't  seen  any  hell-ship,"  I  said  coldly. 

"You've  seen  my  treatment,  ain't  you?"  he  retorted. 
"You've  seen  the  hell  I've  got,  ain't  you?" 

"I  know  you  for  a  cold-blooded  murderer,"  I  answered. 

"The  court  will  determine  that,  sir.  All  you'll  have  to 
do  is  to  testify  to  facts." 

"I'll  testify  that  had  I  been  in  the  mate's  place  I'd 
have  hanged  you  for  murder." 

His  eyes  positively  sparkled. 

"  I  '11  ask  you  to  remember  this  conversation  when  you  're 
under  oath,  sir,"  he  cried  eagerly. 

I  confess  the  man  aroused  in  me  a  reluctant  admiration. 
I  looked  about  his  mean,  iron-walled  room.  During  the 
pampero  the  place  had  been  awash.  The  white  paint  was 
peeling  off  in  huge  scabs,  and  iron-rust  was  everywhere. 
The  floor  was  filthy.  The  place  stank  with  the  stench  of 
his  sickness.  His  pannikin  and  unwashed  eating-gear  from 
the  last  meal  were  scattered  on  the  floor.  His  blankets 
were  wet,  his  clothing  was  wet.  In  a  corner  was  a  hetero 
geneous  mass  of  soggy,  dirty  garments.  He  lay  in  the 
very  bunk  in  which  he  had  brained  0 'Sullivan.  He  had 
been  months  in  this  vile  hole.  In  order  to  live  he  would 
have  to  remain  months  more  in  it.  And,  while  his  ratlike 
vitality  won  my  admiration,  I  loathed  and  detested  him 
in  very  nausea. 

"Aren't  you  afraid?"  I  demanded.  "What  makes  you 
think  you  will  last  the  voyage?  Don't  you  know  bets  are 
being  made  that  you  won 't  ? " 

So  interested  was  he  that  he  seemed  to  prick  up  his  ears 
as  he  raised  on  his  elbow. 

* '  I  suppose  you  're  too  scared  to  tell  me  about  them  bets, ' ' 
he  sneered. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         205 

"Oh,  I've  bet  you'll  last,"  I  assured  him. 

"That  means  there's  others  that  bet  I  won't,"  he  rattled 
on  hastily.  "An'  that  means  that  there's  men  aboard  the 
Elsinore  right  now  financially  interested  in  my  taking- 
off." 

At  this  moment  the  steward,  bound  aft  from  the  galley, 
paused  in  the  doorway  and  listened,  grinning.  As  for 
Charles  Davis,  the  man  had  missed  his  vocation.  He 
should  have  been  a  land  lawyer,  not  a  sea  lawyer. 

* ' Very  well,  sir, ' '  he  went  on.  "I '11  have  you  testify  to 
that  in  Seattle,  unless  you're  lying  to  a  helpless  sick  man, 
or  unless  you'll  perjure  yourself  under  oath." 

He  got  what  he  was  seeking,  for  he  stung  me  to  retort: 

"Oh,  I'll  testify.  Though  I  tell  you  candidly  that  I 
don 't  think  I  '11  win  my  bet. ' ' 

"You  lose  'm  bet  sure,"  the  steward  broke  in,  nodding 
his  head.  "That  fellow  him  die  damn  soon." 

"Bet  with  'm,  sir,"  Davis  challenged  me.  "It's  a 
straight  tip  from  me,  an'  a  regular  cinch." 

The  whole  situation  was  so  grewsome  and  grotesque,  and 
I  had  been  swept  into  it  so  absurdly,  that  for  the  moment 
I  did  not  know  what  to  do  or  say. 

"It's  good  money,"  Davis  urged.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  die. 
— Look  here,  steward,  how  much  you  want  to  bet?" 

"Five  dollar,  ten  dollar,  twenty  dollar,"  the  steward 
answered,  with  a  shoulder-shrug  that  meant  that  the  sum 
was  immaterial. 

"Very  well,  then,  steward.  Mr.  Pathurst  covers  your 
money,  say  for  twenty. — Is  it  a  go,  sir?" 

"Why  don't  you  bet  with  him  yourself?"  I  demanded. 

' '  Sure,  I  will,  sir. — Here,  you  steward,  I  bet  you  twenty 
even  I  don't  die." 

The  steward  shook  his  head. 

"I  bet  you  twenty  to  ten,"  the  sick  man  insisted. 
"What's  eatin'  you,  anyway?" 


206         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

'  *  You  live,  me  lose,  me  pay  you, ' '  the  steward  explained. 
"You  die,  I  win,  you  dead,  no  pay  me." 

Still  grinning  and  shaking  his  head,  he  went  his  way. 

"Just  the  same,  sir,  it'll  be  rich  testimony,"  Davis 
chuckled.  "An'  can't  you  see  the  reporters  eatin'  it  up?" 

The  Asiatic  clique  in  the  cook's  room  has  its  suspicions 
about  the  death  of  Marinkovich,  but  will  not  voice  them. 
Beyond  shakings  of  heads  and  dark  mutterings,  I  can  get 
nothing  out  of  Wada  or  the  steward.  When  I  talked  with 
the  sailmaker  he  complained  that  his  injured  hand  was 
hurting  him  and  that  he  would  be  glad  when  he  could  get 
to  the  surgeons  in  Seattle.  As  for  the  murder,  when 
pressed  by  me  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  it  was  no 
affair  of  the  Japanese  nor  Chinese  on  board,  and  that  he 
was  a  Japanese. 

But  Louis,  the  Chinese  half-caste  with  the  Oxford  accent, 
was  more  frank.  I  caught  him  aft  from  the  galley  on  a 
trip  to  the  lazarette  for  provisions. 

"We  are  of  a  different  race,  sir,  from  these  men,"  he 
said,  "and  our  safest  policy  is  to  leave  them  alone.  We 
have  talked  it  over,  and  we  have  nothing  to  say,  sir,  noth 
ing  whatever  to  say.  Consider  my  position.  I  work  for- 
'ard  in  the  galley;  I  am  in  constant  contact  with  the 
sailors ;  I  even  sleep  in  their  section  of  the  ship ;  and  I  am 
one  man  against  many.  The  only  other  countryman  I 
have  on  board  is  the  steward,  and  he  sleeps  aft.  Your 
servant  and  the  two  sailmakers  are  Japanese.  They  are 
only  remotely  kin  to  us,  though  we've  agreed  to  stand  to 
gether  and  apart  from  whatever  happens." 

"There  is  Shorty,"  I  said,  remembering  Mr.  Pike's  di 
agnosis  of  his  mixed  nationality. 

"But  we  do  not  recognize  him,  sir,"  Louis  answered 
suavely.  "He  is  Portuguese;  he  is  Malay;  he  is  Japan 
ese,  true ;  but  he  is  a  mongrel,  sir,  a  mongrel  and  a  bastard. 
Also,  he  is  a  fool.  And  please,  sir,  remember  that  we  are 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         207 

very  few,  and  that  our  position  compels  us  to  neutrality/' 

"But  your  outlook  is  gloomy,"  I  persisted.  "How  do 
you  think  it  will  end  ? ' ' 

"We  shall  arrive  in  Seattle  most  probably,  some  of  us. 
But  I  can  tell  you  this,  sir:  I  have  lived  a  long  life  on 
the  sea,  but  I  have  never  seen  a  crew  like  this.  There  are 
few  sailors  in  it ;  there  are  bad  men  in  it ;  and  the  rest  are 
fools  and  worse.  You  will  notice  I  mention  no  names,  sir ; 
but  there  are  men  on  board  whom  I  do  not  care  to  antag 
onize.  I  am  just  Louis,  the  cook.  I  do  my  work  to  the 
best  of  my  ability,  and  that  is  all,  sir. ' ' 

"And  will  Charles  Davis  arrive  in  Seattle?"  I  asked, 
changing  the  topic  in  acknowledgment  of  his  right  to  be 
reticent. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  so,  sir,"  he  answered,  although  his 
eyes  thanked  me  for  my  courtesy.  "The  steward  tells  me 
you  have  bet  that  he  will.  I  think,  sir,  it  is  a  poor  bet. 
We  are  about  to  go  around  the  Horn.  I  have  been  around 
it  many  times.  This  is  midwinter,  and  we  are  going  from 
east  to  west.  Davis 's  room  will  be  awash  for  weeks.  It 
will  never  be  dry.  A  strong,  healthy  man  confined  in  it 
could  well  die  of  the  hardship.  And  Davis  is  far  from 
well.  In  short,  sir,  I  know  his  condition,  and  he  is  in  a 
shocking  state.  Surgeons  might  prolong  his  life,  but  here 
in  a  windjammer  it  is  shortened  very  rapidly.  I  have  seen 
many  men  die  at  sea.  I  know,  sir.  Thank  you,  sir." 

And  the  Eurasian  Chinese-Englishman  bowed  himself 
away. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THINGS  are  worse  than  I  fancied.  Here  are  two  episodes 
within  the  last  seventy-two  hours.  Mr.  Mellaire,  for  in 
stance,  is  going  to  pieces.  He  cannot  stand  the  strain  of 
being  on  the  same  vessel  with  the  man  who  has  sworn  to 
avenge  Captain  Somers's  murder,  especially  when  that 
man  is  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Pike. 

For  several  days  Margaret  and  I  have  been  remarking 
the  second  mate's  bloodshot  eyes  and  pain-lined  face  and 
wondering  if  he  were  sick.  And  to-day  the  secret  leaked 
out.  Wada  does  not  like  Mr.  Mellaire,  and  this  morning, 
when  he  brought  me  breakfast,  I  saw  by  the  wicked,  glee 
ful  gleam  in  his  almond  eyes  that  he  was  spilling  over 
with  some  fresh,  delectable  ship's  gossip. 

For  several  days,  I  learned,  he  and  the  steward  have 
been  solving  a  cabin  mystery.  A  gallon  can  of  wood  alco 
hol,  standing  on  a  shelf  in  the  after-room,  had  lost  quite 
a  portion  of  its  contents.  They  compared  notes  and  then 
made  of  themselves  a  Sherlock  Holmes  and  a  Dr.  Watson. 
First,  they  gauged  the  daily  diminution  of  alcohol.  Next 
they  gauged  it  several  times  daily,  and  learned  that  the 
diminution,  whenever  it  occurred,  was  first  apparent  imme 
diately  after  mealtime.  This  focused  their  attention  on 
two  suspects-^the  second  mate  and  the  carpenter,  who 
alone  eat  in  the  after-room.  The  rest  was  easy.  Whenever 
Mr.  Mellaire  arrived  ahead  of  the  carpenter,  more  alcohol 
was  missing.  When  they  arrived  and  departed  together, 
the  alcohol  was  undisturbed.  The  carpenter  was  never 
alone  in  the  room.  The  syllogism  was  complete.  And  now 
the  steward  stores  the  alcohol  under  his  bunk. 

208 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         209 

But  wood  alcohol  is  deadly  poison.  What  a  constitution 
this  man  of  fifty  must  have !  Small  wonder  his  eyes  have 
been  bloodshot.  The  great  wonder  is  that  the  stuff  did  not 
destroy  him. 

I  have  not  whispered  a  word  of  this  to  Margaret;  nor 
shall  I  whisper  it.  I  should  like  to  put  Mr.  Pike  on  his 
guard ;  and  yet  I  know  that  the  revealing  of  Mr.  Mellaire  's 
identity  would  precipitate  another  killing.  And  still  we 
drive  south,  close-hauled  on  the  wind,  toward  the  inhos 
pitable  tip  of  the  continent.  To-day  we  are  south  of  a 
line  drawn  between  the  Straits  of  Magellan  and  the  Falk- 
lands,  and  to-morrow,  if  the  breeze  holds,  we  shall  pick 
up  the  coast  of  Tierra  del  Fuego,  close  to  the  entrance  of 
the  Straits  of  Le  Maire,  through  which  Captain  West  in 
tends  to  pass  if  the  wind  favors. 

The  other  episode  occurred  last  night.  Mr.  Pike  says 
nothing,  yet  he  knows  the  crew  situation.  I  have  been 
watching  some  time  now,  ever  since  the  death  of  Marin- 
kovich;  and  I  am  certain  that  Mr.  Pike  never  ventures  on 
the  main  deck  after  dark.  Yet  he  holds  his  tongue,  con 
fides  in  no  man,  and  plays  out  the  bitter,  perilous  game 
as  a  commonplace  matter  of  course  and  all  in  the  day's 
work. 

And  now  to  the  episode.  Shortly  after  the  close  of  the 
second  dog-watch  last  evening  I  went  for'ard  to  the  chick 
ens  on  the  'midship  house  on  an  errand  for  Margaret.  1 
was  to  make  sure  that  the  steward  had  carried  out  her 
orders.  The  canvas  covering  to  the  big  chicken  coop  had 
to  be  down,  the  ventilation  insured,  and  the  kerosene  stove 
burning  properly.  When  I  had  proved  to  my  satisfaction 
the  dependableness  of  the  steward,  and  just  as  I  was  on 
the  verge  of  returning  to  the  poop,  I  was  drawn  aside  by 
the  weird  crying  of  penguins  in  the  darkness  and  by  the 
unmistakable  noise  of  a  whale  blowing  not  far  away. 

I  had  climbed  around  the  end  of  the  port  boat,  and 


210         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

was  standing  there,  quite  hidden  in  the  darkness,  when  I 
heard  the  unmistakable  age-lag  step  of  the  mate  proceed 
along  the  bridge  from  the  poop.  It  was  a  dim,  starry 
night,  and  the  Elsinore,  in  the  calm  ocean  under  the  lee  of 
Tierra  del  Fuego,  was  slipping  gently  and  prettily  through 
the  water  at  an  eight-knot  clip. 

Mr.  Pike  paused  at  the  for'ard  end  of  the  housetop  and 
stood  in  a  listening  attitude.  From  the  main  deck  below, 
near  Number  Two  hatch,  arose  the  mumbling  of  various 
voices.  I  could  recognize  Kid  Twist,  Nosey  Murphy,  and 
Bert  Rhine — the  three  gangsters.  But  Steve  Roberts,  the 
cowboy,  Was  also  there,  as  was  Mr.  Mellaire,  both  of  whom 
belonged  in  the  other  watch  and  should  have  been  turned 
in;  for  at  midnight  it  would  be  their  watch  on  deck.  Es 
pecially  wrong  was  Mr.  Mellaire 's  presence,  holding  social 
converse  with  members  of  the  crew — a  breach  of  ship 
ethics  most  grievous. 

I  have  always  been  cursed  with  curiosity.  Always  have 
I  wanted  to  know;  and,  on  the  Elsinore,  I  had  already 
witnessed  many  a  little  scene  that  was  a  clean-cut  dramatic 
gem.  So  I  did  not  discover  myself,  but  lurked  behind 
the  boat. 

Five  minutes  passed.  Ten  minutes  passed.  The  men 
still  talked.  I  was  tantalized  by  the  crying  of  the  pen 
guins,  and  by  the  whale,  evidently  playful,  which  came 
so  close  that  it  spouted  and  splashed  a  biscuit-toss  away.  I 
saw  Mr.  Pike 's  head  turn  at  the  sound ;  he  glanced  squarely 
in  my  direction,  but  did  not  see  me.  Then  he  returned 
to  listening  to  the  mumble  of  voices  from  beneath. 

Now,  whether  Mulligan  Jacobs  just  happened  along  or 
whether  he  was  deliberately  scouting,  I  do  not  know.  I 
tell  what  occurred.  Up  and  down  the  side  of  the  'midship 
house  is  a  ladder.  And  up  this  ladder  Mulligan  Jacobs 
climbed  so  noiselessly  that  I  was  not  aware  of  his  presence 
until  I  heard  Mr.  Pike  snarl : 


THE  -MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         211 


the  hell  you  doin'  here?" 

Then  I  saw  Mulligan  Jacobs  in  the  gloom,  within  two 
yards  of  the  mate. 

"What's  it  to  you?"  Mulligan  Jacobs  snarled  back. 

The  voices  below  hushed.  I  knew  every  man  stood  there 
tense  and  listening.  No  ;  the  philosophers  have  not  yet  ex 
plained  Mulligan  Jacobs.  There  is  something  more  to  him 
than  the  last  word  has  said  in  any  book.  He  stood  there 
in  the  darkness,  a  fragile  creature  with  curvature  of  the 
spine,  facing  alone  the  first  mate,  and  he  was  not  afraid. 

Mr.  Pike  cursed  him  with  fearful,  unrepeatable  words, 
and  again  demanded  what  he  was  doing  there. 

*  '  I  left  me  plug  of  tobacco  here  when  I  was  coiling  down 
last,"  said  the  little  twisted  man  —  no,  he  did  not  say  it. 
He  spat  it  out  like  so  much  venom. 

"Get  off  of  here,  or  I'll  throw  you  off,  you  and  your 
tobacco,"  raged  the  mate. 

Mulligan  Jacobs  lurched  closer  to  Mr.  Pike  and  in  the 
gloom  and  with  the  roll  of  the  ship  swayed  in  the  other's 
face. 

"By  God,  Jacobs!"  was  all  the  mate  could  say. 

1  '  You  old  stiff  !  '  '  was  all  the  terrible  little  cripple  could 
retort. 

Mr.  Pike  gripped  him  by  the  collar  and  swung  him  clear 
in  the  air. 

"Are  you  goin'  down?  —  or  am  I  goin'  to  throw  you 
down?"  the  mate  demanded. 

I  cannot  describe  their  manner  of  utterance.  It  was 
that  of  wild  beasts. 

'  '  I  ain  't  ate  outa  your  hand  yet,  have  I  ?  "  was  the  reply. 

Mr.  Pike  tried  to  say  something,  still  holding  the  cripple 
suspended,  but  he  could  do  no  more  than  strangle  in  his 
impotence  of  rage. 

"You're  an  old  stiff,  an  old  stiff,  an  old  stiff!"  Mulligan 


212         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Jacobs  chanted,  equally  incoherent  and  unimaginative  with 
brutish  fury. 

"Say  it  again  and  over  you  go,"  the  mate  managed  to 
enunciate  thickly. 

"You're  an  old  stiff!"  gasped  Mulligan  Jacobs. 

He  was  flung.  He  soared  through  the  air  with  the  might 
of  the  fling,  and,  even  as  he  soared  and  fell,  through  the 
darkness  he  reiterated : 

"Old  stiff!    Old  stiff!" 

He  fell  among  the  men  on  Number  Two  hatch,  and  there 
were  confusion  and  movement  below,  and  groans. 

Mr.  Pike  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow  house  and 
gritted  his  teeth.  Then  he  paused.  He  leaned  his  arms 
on  the  bridge  rail,  rested  his  head  on  his  arm  for  a  full 
minute,  then  groaned: 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  oh,  dear." 

That  was  all.  Then  he  went  aft  slowly,  dragging  his 
feet  along  the  bridge. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

THE  days  grow  gray.  The  sun  has  lost  its  warmth,  and 
each  noon,  at  meridian,  it  is  lower  in  the  northern  sky. 
All  the  old  stars  have  long  since  gone,  and  it  would  seem 
the  sun  is  following  them.  The  world — the  only  world  I 
know — has  been  left  behind  far  there  to  the  north,  and 
the  hill  of  the  earth  is  between  it  and  us.  This  sad  and 
solitary  ocean,  gray  and  cold,  is  the  end  of  all  things;  the 
falling-off  place  where  all  things  cease.  Only  it  grows 
colder,  and  grayer,  and  penguins  cry  in  the  night,  and 
huge  amphibians  moan  and  slubber,  and  great  albatrosses, 
gray  with  storm-battling  of  the  Horn,  wheel  and  veer. 

"Land,  ho!"  was  the  cry  yesterday  morning.  I  shiv 
ered  as  I  gazed  at  this,  the  first  land  since  Baltimore,  a 
few  centuries  ago.  There  was  no  sun,  and  the  morning 
was  damp  and  cold  with  a  brisk  wind  that  penetrated  any 
garment.  The  deck  thermometer  marked  30 — two  degrees 
below  freezing  point ;  and  now  and  then  easy  squalls  of 
snow  swept  past. 

All  of  the  land  that  was  to  be  seen  was  snow.  Long, 
loW  chains  of  peaks,  snow-covered,  arose  out  of  the  ocean. 
As  we  drew  closer  there  were  no  signs  of  life.  It  was  a 
sheer  savage,  bleak,  forsaken  land.  By  eleven,  off  the 
entrance  of  Le  Maire  Straits,  the  squalls  ceased,  the  wind 
steadied,  and  the  tide  began  to  make  through  in  the  direc 
tion  we  desired  to  go. 

Captain  West  did  not  hesitate.  His  orders  to  Mr.  Pike 
were  quick  and  tranquil.  The  man  at  the  wheel  altered 
the  course,  while  both  watches  sprang  aloft  to  shake  out 

213 


214         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

royals  and  skysails.     And  yet  Captain  West  knew  every 
inch  of  the  risk  he  took  in  this  graveyard  of  ships. 

When  we  entered  the  narrow  strait,  under  full  sail  and 
gripped  by  a  tremendous  tide,  the  rugged  headlands  of 
Tierra  del  Fuego  dashed  by  with  dizzying  swiftness.  Close 
we  were  to  them,  and  close  we  were  to  the  jagged  coast  of 
Staten  Island  on  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  here,  in  a  wild 
bight,  between  two  black  and  precipitous  walls  of  rock 
where  even  the  snow  could  find  no  lodgment,  that  Captain 
West  paused  in  a  casual  sweep  of  his  glasses  and  gazed 
steadily  at  one  place.  I  picked  the  spot  up  with  my  own 
glasses  and  was  aware  of  an  instant  chill  as  I  saw  the 
four  masts  of  a  great  ship  sticking  out  of  the  water.  What 
ever  craft  it  was,  it  was  as  large  as  the  Elsinore,  and  it 
had  been  but  recently  wrecked. 

"One  of  the  German  nitrate  ships/'  said  Mr.  Pike. 

Captain  West  nodded,  still  studying  the  wreck,  then 
said: 

"She  looks  quite  deserted.  Just  the  same,  Mr.  Pike, 
send  several  of  your  best-sighted  sailors  aloft  and  keep  a 
good  lookout  yourself.  There  may  be  some  survivors  ashore 
trying  to  signal  us. ' ' 

But  we  sailed  on,  and  no  signals  were  seen.  Mr.  Pike 
was  delighted  with  our  good  fortune.  He  was  guilty  of 
walking  up  and  down,  rubbing  his  hands  and  chuckling 
to  himself.  Not  since  1888,  he  told  me,  had  he  been 
through  the  Straits  of  Le  Maire.  Also,  he  said  that  he 
knew  of  shipmasters  who  had  made  forty  voyages  around 
the  Horn  and  had  never  once  had  the  luck  to  win  through 
the  straits.  The  regular  passage  is  far  to  the  east,  around 
Staten  Island,  which  means  a  loss  of  westing,  and  here, 
at  the  tip  of  the  world,  where  the  great  west  wind,  unob 
structed  by  any  land,  sweeps  around  and  around  the  nar 
row  girth  of  earth,  westing  is  the  thing  that  has  to  be 
fought  for  mile  by  mile  and  inch  by  inch.  The  Sailing 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE        215 

Directions  advise  masters  on  the  Horn  passage:  Make 
westing.  Whatever  you  do,  make  westing. 

When  we  emerged  from  the  straits  in  the  early  after 
noon  the  same  steady  breeze  continued,  and,  in  the  calm 
water  under  the  lee  of  Tierra  del  Fuego,  which  extends 
southwesterly  to  the  Horn,  we  slipped  along  at  an  eight- 
knot  clip. 

Mr.  Pike  was  beside  himself.  He  could  scarcely  tear 
himself  from  the  deck  when  it  was  his  watch  below.  He 
chuckled,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  incessantly  hummed 
snatches  from  the  Twelfth  Mass.  Also  he  was  voluble. 

' '  To-morrow  morning  we  '11  be  up  with  the  Horn.  We  '11 
shave  it  by  a  dozen  or  fifteen  miles.  Think  of  it!  We'll 
just  steal  around !  I  never  had  such  luck,  and  never  ex 
pected  to.  — Old  girl  Elsinore,  you're  rotten  for'ard,  but 
the  hand  of  God  is  at  your  helm. ' ' 

Once,  under  the  weather  cloth,  I  came  upon  him  talking 
to  himself.  It  was  more  a  prayer. 

"If  only  she  don't  pipe  up,"  he  kept  repeating.  "If 
only  she  don't  pipe  up." 

Mr.  Mellaire  was  quite  different. 

"It  never  happens,"  he  told  me.  "No  ship  ever  went 
around  like  this.  You  watch  her  come.  She  always  comes 
a-smoking  out  of  the  son  'west. ' ' 

' '  But  can 't  a  vessel  ever  steal  around  ? "  I  asked. 

1 '  The  odds  are  mighty  big  against  it,  sir, ' '  he  answered. 
"  I  '11  give  you  a  line  on  them.  I  '11  wager  even,  sir,  just  a 
nominal  bet  of  a  pound  of  tobacco  that  inside  twenty-four 
hours  we'll  be  hove  to  under  upper  topsails.  I'll  wager 
ten  pounds  to  five  that  we're  not  west  of  the  Horn  a  week] 
from  now;  and,  fifty  to  fifty  being  the  passage,  twenty 
pounds  to  five  that  two  weeks  from  now  we  're  not  up  with 
fifty  in  the  Pacific." 

As  for  Captain  West,  the  perils  of  Le  Maire  behind,  he 
sat  below,  his  slippered  feet  stretched  before  him,  smoking 


216         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

a  cigar.  He  had  nothing  to  say  whatever,  although  Mar 
garet  and  I  were  jubilant  and  dared  duets  through  all  of 
the  second  dog-watch. 

And  this  morning,  in  a  smooth  sea  and  gentle  breeze,  the 
Horn  bore  almost  due  north  of  us  not  more  than  six  miles 
away.  Here  we  were,  well  abreast  and  reeling  off  westing. 

' '  What  price  tobacco  this  morning  ? "  I  quizzed  Mr.  Mel- 
laire. 

"Going  up,"  he  came  back.  "Wish  I  had  a  thousand 
bets  like  the  one  with  you,  sir." 

I  glanced  about  at  sea  and  sky  and  gauged  the  speed 
of  our  way  by  the  foam,  but  failed  to  see  anything  that 
warranted  his  remark.  It  was  surely  fine  weather,  and 
the  steward,  in  token  of  the  same,  was  trying  to  catch  flut 
tering  Cape  pigeons  with  a  bent  pin  on  a  piece  of  thread. 

For'ard,  on  the  poop,  I  encountered  Mr.  Pike.  It  was 
an  encounter,  for  his  salutation  was  a  grunt. 

"Well,  we're  going  right  along,"  I  ventured  cheerily. 

He  made  no  reply,  but  turned  and  stared  into  the  gray 
southwest  with  an  expression  sourer  than  any  I  had  ever 
seen  on  his  face.  He  mumbled  something  I  failed  to  catch, 
and,  on  my  asking  him  to  repeat  it,  he  said : 

"It's  breeding  weather.     Can't  you  see  it?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"What  d'ye  think  we're  taking  off  the  kites  for?"  he 
growled. 

I  looked  aloft.  The  sky  sails  were  already  furled;  men 
were  furling  the  royals;  and  the  topgallant  yards  were 
running  down,  while  clewlines  and  buntlines  bagged  the 
canvas.  Yet,  if  anything,  our  northerly  breeze  fanned  even 
more  gently. 

' '  Bless  me  if  I  can  see  any  weather, ' '  I  said. 

'  *  Then  go  and  take  a  look  at  the  barometer, ' '  he  grunted, 
as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  swung  away  from  me. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         217 

In  the  chartroom  was  Captain  West,  pulling  on  his  long 
seaboots.  That  would  have  told  me  had  there  been  no 
barometer,  though  the  barometer  was  eloquent  enough  of 
itself.  The  night  before  it  had  stood  at  30.10.  It  was  now 
28.64.  Even  in  the  pampero  it  had  not  been  so  low  as 
that. 

' '  The  usual  Cape  Horn  program, ' '  Captain  West  smiled 
at  me,  as  he  stood  up  in  all  his  lean  and  slender  graceful 
ness  and  reached  for  his  long  oilskin  coat. 

Still  I  could  scarcely  believe. 

' '  Is  it  very  far  away  ? "  I  inquired. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  forbore  in  the  act  of  speaking 
to  lift  his  hand  for  me  to  listen.  The  Elsinore  rolled  un 
easily,  and  from  without  came  the  soft  and  hollow  thunder 
of  sails  emptying  themselves  against  the  masts  and  gear. 

We  had  chatted  a  bare  five  minutes  when  again  he  lifted 
his  hand.  This  time  the  Elsinore  heeled  over  slightly  and 
remained  heeled  over,  while  the  sighing  whistle  of  a  rising 
breeze  awoke  in  the  rigging. 

"It's  beginning  to  make,"  he  said,  in  the  good  old 
Anglo-Saxon  of  the  sea. 

And  then  I  heard  Mr.  Pike  snarling  out  orders,  and  in 
my  heart  discovered  a  growing  respect  for  Cape  Horn — 
Cape  Stiff,  as  the  sailors  call  it. 

An  hour  later  we  were  hove  to  on  the  port  tack  under 
upper  topsails  and  foresail.  The  wind  had  come  out  of 
the  southwest,  and  our  leeway  was  setting  us  down  upon 
the  land.  Captain  West  gave  orders  to  the  mate  to  stand 
by  to  wear  ship.  Both  watches  had  been  taking  in  sail,  so 
that  both  watches  were  on  deck  for  the  maneuver. 

It  was  astounding,  the  big  sea  that  had  arisen  in  so 
short  a  time.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  that  ever, 
in  recurring  gusts,  increased  upon  itself.  Nothing  was 
visible  a  hundred  yards  away.  The  day  had  become  black- 
gray.  In  the  cabin  lamps  were  burning.  The  view  from 


218         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  poop,  along  the  length  of  the  great  laboring  ship,  was 
magnificent.  Seas  burst  and  surged  across  her  weather 
rail  and  kept  her  deck  half  filled  despite  the  spouting  ports 
and  gushing  scuppers. 

On  each  of  the  two  houses  and  on  the  poop  the  ship's 
complement,  all  in  oilskins,  was  in  groups.  For'ard,  Mr. 
Mellaire  had  charge.  Mr.  Pike  took  charge  of  the  'midship 
house  and  the  poop.  Captain  West  strolled  up  and  down, 
saw  everything,  said  nothing ;  for  it  was  the  mate 's  affair. 

When  Mr.  Pike  ordered  the  wheel  hard  up  he  slacked 
off  all  the  mizzen  yards,  and  followed  it  with  a  partial 
slacking  of  the  main  yards,  so  that  the  after-pressures 
were  eased.  The  foresail  and  fore-lower  and  upper  top 
sails  remained  flat  in  order  to  pay  the  head  off  before  the 
wind.  All  this  took  time.  The  men  were  slow,  not  strong, 
and  without  snap.  They  reminded  me  of  dull  oxen  by  the 
way  they  moved  and  pulled.  And  the  gale,  ever  snorting 
harder,  now  snorted  diabolically.  Only  at  intervals  could 
I  glimpse  the  group  on  top  the  for'ard  house.  Again  and 
again,  leaning  to  it  and  holding  their  heads  down,  the 
men  on  the  'midship  house  were  obliterated  by  the  drive 
of  crested  seas  that  burst  against  the  rail,  spouted  to  the 
lower  yards,  and  swept  in  horizontal  volumes  across  to 
leeward.  And  Mr.  Pike,  like  an  enormous  spider  in  a 
wind-tossed  web,  went  back  and  forth  along  the  slender 
bridge  that  was  itself  a  shaken  thread  in  the  blast  of  the 
storm. 

So  tremendous  were  the  gusts  that  for  the  time  the  El- 
sinore  refused  to  answer.  She  lay  down  to  it;  she  was 
swept  and  racked  by  it;  but  her  head  did  not  pay  off  be 
fore  it,  and  all  the  while  we  drove  down  upon  that  bitter, 
iron  coast.  And  the  world  was  black-gray,  and  violent,  and 
very  cold,  with  the  flying  spray  freezing  to  ice  in  every 
lodgment. 

We  waited.    The  groups  of  men,  head  down  to  it,  waited. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         219 

Mr.  Pike,  restless,  angry,  his  blue  eyes  as  bitter  as  the  cold, 
his  mouth  as  much  a-snarl  as  the  snarl  of  the  elements  with 
which  he  fought,  waited.  The  Samurai  waited,  tranquil, 
casual,  remote.  And  Cape  Horn  waited,  there  on  our  lee, 
for  the  bones  of  our  ship  and  us. 

And  then  the  Elsinore's  bow  paid  off.  The  angle  of  the 
beat  of  the  gale  changed,  and  soon,  with  dreadful  speed,  we 
were  dashing  straight  before  it  and  straight  toward  the 
rocks  we  could  not  see.  But  all  doubt  was  over.  The  suc 
cess  of  the  maneuver  was  assured.  Mr.  Mellaire,  informed 
by  messenger  along  the  bridge  from  Mr.  Pike,  slacked  off 
the  headyards.  Mr.  Pike,  his  eye  on  the  helmsman,  his 
hand  signaling  the  order,  had  the  wheel  put  over  to  port 
to  check  the  Elsinore's  rush  into  the  wind  as  she  came  up 
on  the  starboard  tack.  All  was  activity.  Main  and  miz- 
zen  yards  were  braced  up,  and  the  Elsinore,  snugged  down 
and  hove  to,  had  a  lee  of  thousands  of  miles  of  Southern 
Ocean. 

And  all  this  had  been  accomplished  in  the  stamping 
ground  of  storm,  at  the  end  of  the  world,  by  a  handful  of 
wretched  weaklings,  under  the  drive  of  two  strong  mates, 
with  behind  them  the  placid  will  of  the  Samurai. 

It  had  taken  thirty  minutes  to  wear  ship,  and  I  had 
learned  how  the  best  of  shipmasters  can  lose  their  ships 
without  reproach.  Suppose  the  Elsinore  had  persisted  in 
her  refusal  to  pay  off?  Suppose  anything  had  carried 
away?  And  right  here  enters  Mr.  Pike.  It  is  his  task 
ever  to  see  that  every  rope  and  block  and  all  the  myriad 
other  things  in  the  vast  and  complicated  gear  of  the  El 
sinore  is  in  strength  not  to  carry  away.  Always  have  the 
masters  of  our  race  required  henchmen  like  Mr.  Pike,  and 
it  seems  the  race  has  well  supplied  these  henchmen. 

Ere  I  went  below  I  heard  Captain  West  tell  Mr  Pike 
that  while  both  watches  were  on  deck  it  would  be  just  as 
well  to  put  a  reef  in  the  foresail  before  they  furled  it.  The 


220         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

mainsail  and  the  crojack  being  off,  I  could  see  the  men 
black  on  the  foreyard.  For  half  an  hour  I  lingered,  watch 
ing  them.  They  seemed  to  make  no  progress  with  the  reef. 
Mr.  Mellaire  was  with  them,  having  direct  supervision  of 
the  job,  while  Mr.  Pike,  on  the  poop,  growled  and  grumbled 
and  spat  endless  blasphemies  into  the  flying  air. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Two  watches  on  a  single  yardarm  and  unable  to  put  a 
reef  in  a  handkerchief  like  that ! "  he  snorted.  ' '  What  11  it 
be  if  we're  off  here  a  month?" 

"A  month!"  I  cried. 

"A  month  isn't  anything  for  Cape  Stiff,"  he  said  grimly. 
"I've  been  off  here  seven  weeks  and  then  turned  tail  and 
run  around  the  other  way." 

"Around  the  world?"  I  gasped. 

"It  was  the  only  way  to  get  to  'Frisco,"  he  answered. 
"The  Horn's  the  Horn,  and  there's  no  summer  seas  that 
I've  ever  noticed  in  this  neighborhood." 

My  fingers  were  numb  and  I  was  chilled  through  when 
I  took  a  last  look  at  the  wretched  men  on  the  foreyard 
and  went  below  to  warm  up. 

A  little  later,  as  I  went  in  to  table,  through  a  cabin  port 
I  stole  a  look  for'ard  between  seas  and  saw  the  men  still 
struggling  on  the  freezing  yard. 

The  four  of  us  were  at  table,  and  it  was  very  comfort 
able,  in  spite  of  the  Elsinore's  violent  antics.  The  room 
was  warm.  The  storm-racks  on  the  table  kept  each  dish  in 
its  place.  The  steward  served  and  moved  about  with  ease 
and  apparent  unconcern,  although  I  noticed  an  occasional 
anxious  gleam  in  his  eyes  when  he  poised  some  dish  at  a 
moment  when  the  ship  pitched  and  flung  with  unusual 
wildness. 

And  now  and  again  I  thought  of  the  poor  devils  on  the 
yard.  Well,  they  belonged  there  by  right,  just  as  we  be 
longed  by  right  here  in  this  oasis  of  the  cabin.  I  looked  at 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         221 

Mr.  Pike  and  wagered  to  myself  that  half  a  dozen  like  him 
could  master  that  stubborn  foresail.  As  for  the  Samurai, 
I  was  convinced  that  alone,  not  moving  from  his  seat,  by  a 
tranquil  exertion  of  will,  he  could  accomplish  the  same 
thing. 

The  lighted  sea-lamps  swung  and  leaped  in  their  gimbals, 
ever  battling  with  the  dancing  shadows  in  the  murky  gray. 
The  woodwork  creaked  and  groaned.  The  jiggermast,  a 
huge  cylinder  of  hollow  steel  that  perforated  the  apart 
ment  through  deck  above  and  floor  beneath,  was  hideously 
vocal  with  the  storm.  Far  above,  taut  ropes  beat  against  it 
so  that  it  clanged  like  a  boilershop.  There  was  a  perpetual 
thunder  of  seas  falling  on  our  deck  and  crash  of  water 
against  our  for  'ard  wall ;  while  the  ten  thousand  ropes  and 
gears  aloft  bellowed  and  screamed  as  the  storm  smote  them. 

And  yet  all  this  was  from  without.  Here,  at  this  well- 
appointed  table,  was  no  draft  nor  breath  of  wind,  no  drive 
of  spray  nor  wash  of  sea.  We  were  in  the  heart  of  peace 
in  the  midmost  center  of  the  storm.  Margaret  was  in  high 
spirits,  and  her  laughter  vied  with  the  clang  of  the  jigger- 
mast.  Mr.  Pike  was  gloomy,  but  I  knew  him  well  enough 
to  attribute  his  gloom,  not  to  the  elements,  but  to  the  ineffi- 
cients  futilely  freezing  on  the  yard.  As  for  me,  I  looked 
about  at  the  four  of  us — blue-eyed,  gray-eyed,  all  fair- 
skinned  and  royal  blond — and  somehow  it  seemed  that  I 
had  long  since  lived  this,  and  that  with  me  and  in  me  were 
all  my  ancestors,  and  that  their  lives  and  memories  were 
mine,  and  that  all  this  vexation  of  the  sea  and  air  and 
laboring  ship  was  of  old  time  and  a  thousand  times  before. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

' '  How  are  you  for  a  climb  ? ' '  Margaret  asked  me,  shortly 
after  we  had  left  the  table. 

She  stood  challengingly  at  my  open  door,  in  oilskins, 
sou'wester,  and  seaboots. 

"I've  never  seen  you  with  a  foot  above  the  deck  since 
we  sailed,"  she  went  on.  "Have  you  a  good  head?" 

I  marked  my  book,  rolled  out  of  my  bunk  in  which  I 
had  been  wedged,  and  clapped  my  hands  for  Wada. 

' '  Will  you  ? ' '  she  cried  eagerly. 

"If  you  let  me  lead,"  I  answered  airily,  "and  if  you 
will  promise  to  hold  on  tight. — Whither  away?" 

"Into  the  top  of  the  jigger.  It's  the  easiest.  As  for 
holding  on,  please  remember  that  I  have  often  done  it. 
It  is  with  you  the  doubt  rests." 

"Very  well,"  I  retorted;  "do  you  lead  then.  I  shall 
hold  on  tight." 

"I  have  seen  many  a  landsman  funk  it,"  she  teased. 
' '  There  are  no  lubber-holes  in  our  tops. ' ' 

"And  most  likely  I  shall,"  I  agreed.  "I've  never  been 
aloft  in  my  life,  and  since  there  is  no  hole  for  a  lub 
ber  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  me,  half-believing  my  confession  of  weak 
ness,  while  I  extended  my  arms  for  the  oilskin  which 
Wada  struggled  onto  me. 

On  the  poop  it  was  magnificent,  and  terrible,  and  som 
ber.  The  universe  was  very  immediately  about  us.  It 
blanketed  us  in  storming  wind  and  flying  spray  and  gray- 
ness.  Our  main  deck  was  impassable,  and  the  relief  of  the 
wheel  came  aft  along  the  bridge.  It  was  two  o'clock,  and 

222 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         223 

for  over  two  hours  the  frozen  wretches  had  lain  out  upon 
the  foreyard.  They  were  still  there,  weak,  feeble,  hope 
less.  Captain  West,  stepping  out  in  the  lee  of  the  chart- 
house,  gazed  at  them  for  several  minutes. 

"We'll  have  to  give  up  that  reef/'  he  said  to  Mr.  Pike. 
"Just  make  the  sail  fast.  Better  put  on  double  gaskets." 

And  with  lagging  feet,  from  time  to  time  pausing  and 
holding  on  as  spray  and  the  tops  of  waves  swept  over  him, 
the  mate  went  for'ard  along  the  bridge  to  vent  his  scorn 
on  the  two  watches  of  a  four-masted  ship  that  could  not 
reef  a  foresail. 

It  is  true.  They  could  not  do  it,  despite  their  willing 
ness,  for  this  I  have  learned:  the  men  do  their  work  lest 
whenever  the  order  is  given  to  shorten  sail.  It  must  be 
that  they  are  afraid.  They  lack  the  iron  of  Mr.  Pike,  the 
wisdom  and  the  iron  of  Captain  West.  Always,  have  I 
noticed,  with  all  the  alacrity  of  which  they  are  capable,  do 
they  respond  to  any  order  to  shorten  down.  That  is  why 
they  are  for  'ard,  in  that  pigsty  of  a  forecastle,  because  they 
lack  the  iron.  Well,  I  can  say  only  this :  If  nothing  else 
could  have  prevented  the  funk  hinted  at  by  Margaret,  the 
sorry  spectacle  of  these  ironless,  spineless  creatures  was 
sufficient  safeguard.  How  could  I  funk  in  the  face  of  their 
weakness — I,  who  lived  aft  in  the  high  place? 

Margaret  did  not  disdain  the  aid  of  my  hand  as  she 
climbed  upon  the  pinrail  at  the  foot  of  the  weather  jig 
ger  rigging.  But  it  was  merely  the  recognition  of  a  cour 
tesy  on  her  part,  for  the  next  moment  she  released  her 
mittened  hand  from  mine,  swung  boldly  outboard  into  the 
face  of  the  gale,  and  around  against  the  ratlines.  Then 
she  began  to  climb.  I  followed,  almost  unaware  of  the 
ticklishness  of  the  exploit  for  a  tyro,  so  buoyed  up  was  I 
by  her  example  and  by  my  scorn  of  the  weaklings  for'ard. 
Where  men  could  go,  I  could  go.  What  men  could  do,  I 


224         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

could  do.  And  no  daughter  of  the  Samurai  could  out- 
game  me. 

Yet  it  was  slow  work.  In  the  windward  rolls  against 
the  storm  gusts  one  was  pinned  helplessly,  like  a  butterfly, 
against  the  rigging.  At  such  times,  so  great  was  the  press 
ure,  one  could  not  lift  hand  nor  foot.  Also,  there  was  no 
need  for  holding  on.  As  I  have  said,  one  was  pinned 
against  the  rigging  by  the  wind. 

Through  the  snow  beginning  to  drive,  the  deck  grew 
small  beneath  me,  until  a  fall  meant  a  broken  back  or 
death,  unless  one  landed  in  the  sea,  in  which  case  the 
result  would  be  frigid  drowning.  And  still  Margaret 
climbed.  Without  pause  she  went  out  under  the  over 
hanging  platform  of  the  top,  shifted  her  holds  to  the  rig 
ging  that  went  aloft  from  it,  and  swung  around  this  rig 
ging,  easily,  carelessly,  timing  the  action  to  the  roll,  and 
stood  safely  upon  the  top. 

I  followed.  I  breathed  no  prayers,  knew  no  qualms,  as 
I  presented  my  back  to  the  deck  and  climbed  out  under 
the  overhang,  feeling  with  my  hands  for  holds  I  could  not 
see.  I  was  in  an  ecstasy.  I  could  dare  anything.  Had 
she  sprung  into  the  air,  stretched  out  her  arms,  and  soared 
away  on  the  breast  of  the  gale,  I  should  have  unhesitatingly 
followed  her. 

As  my  head  outpassed  the  edge  of  the  top  so  that  she 
came  into  view,  I  could  see  she  was  looking  at  me  with 
storm-bright  eyes.  And  as  I  swung  around  the  rigging 
lightly  and  joined  her,  I  saw  approval  in  her  eyes  that  was 
quickly  routed  by  petulance. 

"Oh,  you've  done  this  sort  of  thing  before/'  she  re 
proached,  calling  loudly,  so  that  I  might  hear,  her  lips  close 
to  my  ear. 

I  shook  a  denial  with  my  head  that  brightened  her  eyes 
again.  She  nodded  and  smiled,  and  sat  down,  dangling 
her  seaboots  into  snow-swirled  space  from  the  edge  of  the 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         225 

top.  I  sat  beside  her,  looking  down  into  the  snow  that 
hid  the  deck  while  it  exaggerated  the  depth  out  of  which 
we  had  climbed. 

We  were  all  alone  there,  a  pair  of  storm  petrels  perched 
in  mid  air  on  a  steel  stick  that  arose  out  of  snow  and  that 
vanished  above  into  snow.  We  had  come  to  the  tip  of  the 
world,  and  even  that  tip  had  ceased  to  be.  But  no.  Out 
of  the  snow,  down  wind,  with  motionless  wings,  driving 
fully  eighty  or  ninety  miles  an  hour,  appeared  a  huge  alba 
tross.  He  must  have  been  fifteen  feet  from  wing-tip  to 
wing-tip.  He  had  seen  his  danger  ere  we  saw  him,  and, 
tilting  his  body  on  the  blast,  he  carelessly  veered  clear  of 
collision.  His  head  and  neck  were  rimmed  with  age  or  frost 
• — we  could  not  tell  which — and  his  bright  bead  eye  noted 
us  as  he  passed  and  whirled  away  on  a  great  circle  into 
the  snow  to  leeward. 

Margaret's  hand  shot  out  to  mine. 

"It  alone  was  worth  the  climb!"  she  cried. 

And  then  the  Elsinore  flung  down,  and  Margaret's  hand 
clutched  tighter  for  holding,  while  from  the  hidden  depths 
arose  the  crash  and  thunder  of  the  great  west  wind  drift 
upon  our  decks. 

Quickly  as  the  snow  squall  had  come,  it  passed  with  the 
same  sharp  quickness,  and  as  in  a  flash  we  could  see  the 
lean  length  of  the  ship  beneath  us — the  main  deck  full  with 
boiling  flood,  the  forecastle  head  buried  in  a  bursting  sea, 
the  lookout,  stationed  for  very  life  back  on  top  the  for  'ard' 
house,  hanging  on,  head  down,  to  the  wind-drive  of  ocean, 
and,  directly  under  us,  the  streaming  poop  and  Mr.  Mel- 
laire,  with  a  handful  of  men,  rigging  relieving  tackles  on 
the  tiller.  And  we  saw  the  Samurai  emerge  in  the  lee  of 
the  charthouse,  swaying  with  casual  surety  on  the  mad 
deck,  as  he  spoke  what  must  have  been  instructions  to  Mr. 
Pike. 

The  gray  circle  of  the  world  had  removed  itself  from  us 


226         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

for  several  hundred  yards,  and  we  could  see  the  mighty 
sweep  of  sea.  Shaggy  graybeards,  sixty  feet  from  trough 
to  crest,  leapt  out  of  the  windward  murky  gray,  and  in 
unending  procession  rushed  upon  the  Elsinore,  one  mo 
ment  overtoppling  her  slender  frailness,  the  next  moment 
splashing  a  hundred  tons  of  water  on  her  deck  and  fling 
ing  her  skyward  as  they  passed  beneath  and  foamed  and 
crested  from  sight  in  the  murky  gray  to  leeward.  And 
the  great  albatrosses  veered  and  circled  about  us,  beating 
up  into  the  bitter  violence  of  the  gale  and  sweeping  grandly 
away  before  it  far  faster  than  it  blew. 

Margaret  forbore  from  looking  to  challenge  me  with 
eloquent,  questioning  eyes.  With  numb  fingers  inside  my 
thick  mitten,  I  drew  aside  the  earflap  of  her  sou'wester 
and  shouted: 

"It  is  nothing  new.  I  have  been  here  before.  In  the 
lives  of  all  my  fathers  have  I  been  here.  The  frost  is  on 
my  cheek,  the  salt  bites  my  nostrils,  the  wind  chants  in 
my  ears,  and  it  is  an  old  happening.  I  know,  now,  that 
my  forebears  were  Vikings.  I  was  seed  of  them  in  their 
own  day.  With  them  I  have  raided  English  coasts,  dared 
the  Pillars  of  Hercules,  forayed  the  Mediterranean,  and 
sat  in  the  high  place  of  government  over  the  soft  sun- warm 
peoples.  I  am  Hengist  and  Horsa;  I  am  of  the  ancient 
heroes  even  legendary  to  them.  I  have  bearded  and  bitted 
the  frozen  seas,  and,  aforetime  of  that,  ere  ever  the  ice  ages 
came  to  be,  I  have  dripped  my  shoulders  in  reindeer  gore, 
slain  the  mastodon  and  the  saber-tooth,  scratched  the  rec 
ord  of  my  prowess  on  the  walls  of  deep-buried  caves — ay, 
and  suckled  she-wolves  side  by  side  with  my  brother  cubs, 
the  scars  of  whose  fangs  are  now  upon  me. ' ' 

She  laughed  deliciously,  and  a  snow  squall  drove  upon 
us  and  cut  our  cheeks,  and  the  Elsinore  flung  over  and 
down  as  if  she  would  never  rise  again,  while  we  held  on 
and  swept  through  the  air  in  a  dizzying  arc.  Margaret 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         227 

released  a  hand,  still  laughing,  and  pressed  aside  my  ear- 
nap. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  she  cried.  "It  sounds 
like  poetry.  But  I  believe  it.  It  has  to  be,  for  it  has  been. 
I  have  heard  it  aforetime,  when  skin-clad  men  sang  in 
fire  circles  that  pressed  back  the  frost  and  night." 

"And  the  books?"  she  queried  maliciously,  as  we  pre 
pared  to  descend. 

'  *  They  can  go  hang,  along  with  all  the  brain-sick,  world- 
sick  fools  that  wrote  them,"  I  replied. 

Again  she  laughed  deliciously,  though  the  wind  tore  the 
sound  away  as  she  swung  out  into  space,  muscled  herself 
by  her  arms  while  she  caught  footholds  beneath  her  which 
she  could  not  see,  and  passed  out  of  my  sight  under  the 
perilous  overhang  of  the  top. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

"WHAT  price  tobacco?"  was  Mr.  Mellaire's  greeting, 
when  I  came  on  deck  this  morning,  bruised  and  weary, 
aching  in  every  bone  and  muscle  from  sixty  hours  of  being 
tossed  about. 

The  wind  had  fallen  to  a  dead  calm  toward  morning, 
and  the  Elsinore,  her  several  spread  sails  booming  and  slat 
ting,  rolled  more  miserably  than  ever.  Mr.  Mellaire  pointed 
for'ard  of  our  starboard  beam.  I  could  make  out  a  bleak 
land  of  white  and  jagged  peaks. 

"Staten  Island,  the  easterly  end  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Mel 
laire. 

And  I  knew  that  we  were  in  the  position  of  a  vessel  just 
rounding  Staten  Island,  preliminary  to  bucking  the  Horn. 
And  yet  four  days  ago  we  had  run  through  the  Straits  of 
Le  Maire  and  stolen  along  toward  the  Horn.  Three  days 
ago  we  had  been  well  abreast  of  the  Horn  and  even  a  few 
miles  past.  And  here  we  were  now,  starting  all  over  again 
and  far  in  the  rear  of  where  we  had  originally  started. 

The  condition  of  the  men  is  truly  wretched.  During  the 
gale  the  forecastle  was  washed  out  twice.  This  means  that 
everything  in  it  was  afloat  and  that  every  article  of 
clothing,  including  mattresses  and  blankets,  is  wet  and 
will  remain  wet  in  this  bitter  weather  until  we  are  around 
the  Horn  and  well  up  in  the  good-weather  latitudes.  The 
same  is  true  of  the  'midship  house.  Every  room  in  it,  with 
the  exception  of  the  cook's  and  the  sailmakers'  (which 
open  for'ard  on  Number  Two  hatch),  is  soaking.  And 
they  have  no  fires  in  their  rooms  with  which  to  dry  things 
out. 

228 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         229 

I  peeped  into  Charles  Davis 's  room.  It  was  terrible. 
He  grinned  to  me  and  nodded  his  head. 

"It's  just  as  well  0 'Sullivan  wasn't  here,  sir,"  he  said. 
"He'd  'a'  drowned  in  the  lower  bunk.  And  I  want  to 
tell  you  I  was  doing  some  swimmin'  before  I  could  get  into 
the  top  one.  And  salt  water's  bad  for  my  sores.  I 
oughtn't  to  be  in  a  hole  like  this  in  Cape  Horn  weather. 
Look  at  the  ice  there  on  the  floor.  It's  below  freezin' 
right  now  in  this  room,  and  my  blankets  are  wet,  and  I'm 
a  sick  man,  as  any  man  can  tell  that 's  got  a  nose. ' ' 

"If  you'd  been  decent  to  the  mate  you  might  have  got 
decent  treatment  in  return,"  I  said. 

"Huh!"  he  sneered.  "You  needn't  think  you  can  lose 
me,  sir.  I  can  grow  fat  on  this  sort  of  stuff.  Why,  sir, 
when  I  think  of  the  court  doin's  in  Seattle  I  just  couldn't 
die.  An'  if  you'll  listen  to  me,  sir,  you'll  cover  the  stew 
ard's  money.  You  can't  lose.  I'm  advisin'  you,  sir,  be 
cause  you're  a  sort  of  decent  sort.  Anybody  that  bets  on 
my  going  over  the  side  is  a  sure  loser." 

"How  could  you  dare  ship  on  a  voyage  like  this  in  your 
condition?"  I  demanded. 

' '  Condition  ? "  he  queried  with  a  fine  assumption  of  inno 
cence.  "Why,  that  is  why  I  did  ship.  I  was  in  tiptop 
shape  when  I  sailed.  All  this  come  out  on  me  afterward. 
You  remember  seein'  me  aloft,  an'  up  to  my  neck  in  water. 
And  I  trimmed  coal  below,  too.  A  sick  man  couldn't  do 
it.  And  remember,  sir,  you'll  have  to  testify  to  how  I 
did  my  duty  at  the  beginning  before  I  took  down." 

"I'll  bet  with  you  myself  if  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  die," 
he  called  after  me. 

Already  the  sailors  show  marks  of  the  hardship  they 
are  enduring.  It  is  surprising,  in  so  short  a  time,  how 
lean  their  faces  have  grown,  how  lined  and  seamed.  They 
must  dry  their  underclothing  with  their  body  heat.  Their 
outer  garments,  under  their  oilskins,  are  soggy.  And  yet, 


230         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

paradoxically,  despite  their  lean,  drawn  faces,  they  have 
grown  very  stout.  Their  walk  is  a  waddle  and  they  bulge 
with  seeming  corpulence.  This  is  due  to  the  amount  of 
clothing  they  have  on.  I  noticed  Larry  to-day  had  on  two 
vests,  two  coats,  and  an  overcoat,  with  his  oilskin  outside 
of  that.  They  are  elephantine  in  their  gait,  for,  in  ad 
dition  to  everything  else,  they  have  wrapped  their  feet, 
outside  their  seaboots,  with  gunny  sacking. 

It  is  cold,  although  the  deck  thermometer  stood  at  thirty- 
three  to-day  at  noon.  I  had  Wada  weigh  the  clothing  I 
wear  on  deck.  Omitting  oilskins  and  boots,  it  came  to 
eighteen  pounds.  And  yet  I  am  not  any  too  warm  in  all 
this  gear  when  the  wind  is  blowing.  How  sailors,  after 
having  once  experienced  the  Horn,  can  ever  sign  on  again 
for  a  voyage  around  is  beyond  me.  It  but  serves  to  show 
how  stupid  they  must  be. 

I  feel  sorry  for  Henry,  the  training-ship  boy.  He  is 
more  my  own  kind,  and  some  day  he  will  make  a  henchman 
of  the  afterguard  and  a  mate  like  Mr.  Pike.  In  the  mean 
time,  along  with  Buckwheat,  the  other  boy  who  berths  in 
the  'midship  house  with  him,  he  suffers  the  same  hardship 
as  the  men.  He  is  very  fair-skinned,  and  I  noticed  this 
afternoon,  when  he  was  pulling  on  a  brace,  that  the  sleeves 
of  his  oilskins,  assisted  by  the  salt  water,  have  chafed  his 
wrists  till  they  are  raw  and  bleeding  and  breaking  out  in 
sea  boils.  Mr.  Mellaire  tells  me  that  in  another  week  there 
will  be  a  plague  of  these  boils  with  all  hands  for'ard. 

"When  do  you  think  We'll  be  up  with  the  Horn  again ?" 
I  innocently  queried  of  Mr.  Pike. 

He  turned  upon  me  in  a  rage,  as  if  I  had  insulted  him, 
and  positively  snarled  in  my  face  ere  he  swung  away  with 
out  the  courtesy  of  an  answer.  It  is  evident  that  he  takes 
the  sea  seriously.  That  is  why,  I  fancy,  that  he  is  so 
excellent  a  seaman. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         231 

The  days  pass — if  the  interval  of  somber  gray  that  comes 
between  the  darknesses  can  be  called  day.  For  a  week 
now  we  have  not  seen  the  sun.  Our  ship 's  position  in  this 
waste  of  storm  and  sea  is  conjectural.  Once,  by  dead 
reckoning,  we  gained  up  with  the  Horn  and  a  hundred 
miles  south  of  it.  And  then  came  another  sou 'west  gale 
that  tore  our  foretopsail  and  brand  new  spencer  out  of  the 
boltropes  and  swept  us  away  to  a  conjectured  longitude 
east  of  Staten  Island. 

Oh,  I  know  now  this  Great  "West  "Wind  that  blows  for 
ever  around  the  world  south  of  55.  And  I  know  why  the 
chart-makers*  have  capitalized  it,  as,  for  instance,  when  I 
read  "The  Great  West  Wind  Drift."  And  I  know  why 
the  "Sailing  Directions"  advise:  Whatever  you  do,  make 
westing!  make  westing! 

And  the  West  Wind  and  the  drift  of  the  West  Wind 
will  not  permit  the  Elsinore  to  make  westing.  Gale  follows 
gale,  always  from  the  west,  and  we  make  easting.  And  it 
is  bitter  cold,  and  each  gale  snorts  up  with  a  prelude  of 
driving  snow. 

In  the  cabin  the  lamps  burn  all  day  long.  No  more  does 
Mr.  Pike  run  the  phonograph,  nor  does  Margaret  ever 
touch  the  piano.  She  complains  of  being  bruised  and  sore. 
I  have  a  wrenched  shoulder  from  being  hurled  against  the 
wall.  And  both  Wada  and  the  steward  are  limping. 
Keally,  the  only  comfort  I  can  find  is  in  my  bunk,  so 
wedged  with  boxes  and  pillows  that  the  wildest  rolls  can 
not  throw  me  out.  There,  save  for  my  meals  and  for  an 
occasional  run  on  deck  for  exercise  and  fresh  air,  I  lie  and 
read  eighteen  and  nineteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four. 
But  the  unending  physical  strain  is  very  wearisome. 

How  it  must  be  with  the  poor  devils  for'ard  is  beyond 
conceiving.  The  forecastle  has  been  washed  out  several 
times  and  everything  is  soaking  wet.  Besides,  they  have 
grown  weaker,  and  two  watches  are  required  to  do  what 


232         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

one  ordinary  watch  could  do.  Thus,  they  must  spend  as 
many  hours  on  the  sea-swept  deck  and  aloft  on  the  freez 
ing  yards  as  I  do  in  my  warm,  dry  bunk.  Wada  tells  me 
that  they  never  undress,  but  turn  into  their  wet  bunks  in 
their  oilskins  and  seaboots  and  wet  undergarments. 

To  look  at  them  crawling  about  on  deck  or  in  the  rigging 
is  enough.  They  are  truly  weak.  They  are  gaunt-cheeked 
and  haggard-gray  of  skin,  with  great  dark  circles  under 
their  eyes.  The  predicted  plague  of  sea  boils  and  sea  cuts 
has  come,  and  their  hands  and  wrists  and  arms  are  fright 
fully  afflicted.  Now  one,  and  now  another,  and  sometimes 
several,  either  from  being  knocked  down  by  seas  or  from 
general  miser ableness,  take  to  the  bunk  for  a  day  or  so  off. 
This  means  more  work  for  the  others,  so  that  the  men  on 
their  feet  are  not  tolerant  of  the  sick  ones,  and  a  man 
must  be  very  kick  to  escape  being  dragged  out  to  work  by 
his  mates. 

I  cannot  but  marvel  at  Andy  Fay  and  Mulligan  Jacobs. 
Old  and  fragile  as  they  are,  it  seems  impossible  that  they 
can  endure  what  they  do.  For  that  matter,  I  cannot  un 
derstand  why  they  work  at  all.  I  cannot  understand  why 
any  of  them  toil  on  and  obey  an  order  in  this  freezing  hell 
of  the  Horn.  Is  it  because  of  fear  of  death  that  they 
do  not  cease  work  and  bring  death  to  all  of  us?  Or  is  it 
because  they  are  slave-beasts,  with  a  slave  psychology,  so 
used  all  their  lives  to  being  driven  by  their  masters  that  it 
is  beyond  their  mental  power  to  refuse  to  obey? 

And  yet,  most  of  them,  in  a  week  after  we  reach  Seattle, 
will  be  on  board  other  ships  outward  bound  for  the  Horn. 
Margaret  says  the  reason  for  this  is  that  sailors  forget. 
Mr.  Pike  agrees.  He  says  give  them  a  week  in  the  South 
east  Trades  as  we  run  up  the  Pacific  and  they  will  have 
forgotten  that  they  have  ever  been  around  the  Horn.  I 
wonder.  Can  they  be  as  stupid  as  this?  Does  pain  leave 
no  record  with  them?  Do  they  fear  only  the  immediate 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE         233 

thing?  Have  they  no  horizons  wider  than  a  day?  Then 
indeed  do  they  belong  where  they  are. 

They  are  cowardly.  This  was  shown  conclusively  this 
morning  at  two  o  'clock.  Never  have  I  witnessed  such  panic 
fear,  and  it  was  fear  of  the  immediate  thing — fear,  stupid 
and  beastlike.  It  was  Mr.  Mellaire's  watch.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  I  was  reading  Boas'  "Mind  of  Primitive 
Man,"  when  I  heard  the  rush  of  feet  over  my  head.  The 
Elsinore  was  hove  to  on  the  port  tack  at  the  time,  under 
very  short  canvas.  I  was  wondering  what  emergency  had 
brought  the  watch  upon  the  poop  when  I  heard  another 
rush  of  feet  that  meant  the  second  watch.  I  heard  no  pull 
ing  and  hauling,  and  the  thought  of  mutiny  flashed  across 
my  mind. 

Still  nothing  happened,  and,  growing  curious,  I  got  into 
my  seaboots,  sheepskin  coat  and  oilskin,  put  on  my  sou' 
wester  and  mittens,  and  went  on  deck.  Mr.  Pike  had  al 
ready  dressed  and  was  ahead  of  me.  Captain  West,  who 
in  this  bad  weather  sleeps  in  the  chartroom,  stood  in  the 
lee  doorway  of  the  house,  through  which  the  lamplight 
streamed  on  the  frightened  faces  of  the  men. 

Those  of  the  'midship  house  were  not  present,  but  every 
man  Jack  of  the  forecastle,  with  the  exception  of  Andy 
Fay  and  Mulligan  Jacobs,  as  I  afterward  learned,  had 
joined  in  the  flight  aft.  Andy  Fay,  who  belonged  in  the 
watch  below,  had  calmly  remained  in  his  bunk,  while  Mul 
ligan  Jacobs  had  taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
sneak  into  the  forecastle  and  fill  his  pipe.  ' 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Pike?"  Captain  West  asked. 

Before  the  mate  could  reply  Bert  Rhine  snickered : 

"The  devil's  come  aboard,  sir." 

But  his  snicker  was  palpably  an  assumption  of  uncon 
cern  he  did  not  possess.  The  more  I  think  over  it  the 
more  I  am  surprised  that  such  keen  men  as  the  gangsters 
should  have  been  frightened  by  what  had  occurred.  But 


234         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

frightened  they  were,  the  three  of  them,  out  of  their  bunks 
and  out  of  the  precious  surcease  of  their  brief  watch 
below. 

So  fear-struck  was  Larry  that  he  chattered  and  grimaced 
like  an  ape,  and  shouldered  and  struggled  to  get  away  from 
the  dark  and  into  the  safety  of  the  shaft  of  light  that 
shone  out  of  the  charthouse.  Tony,  the  Greek,  was  just 
as  bad,  mumbling  to  himself  and  continually  crossing  him 
self.  He  was  joined  in  this,  as  a  sort  of  chorus,  by  the 
two  Italians,  Guido  Bombini  and  Mike  Cipriani.  Arthur 
Deacon  was  almost  in  collapse,  and  he  and  Chantz,  the  Jew, 
shamelessly  clung  to  each  other  for  support.  Bob,  the  fat 
and  overgrown  youth,  was  sobbing,  while  the  other  youth, 
Bony  the  Splinter,  was  shivering  and  chattering  his  teeth. 
Yes,  and  the  two  best  sailors  for'ard,  Tom  Spink  and  the 
Maltese  Cockney,  stood  in  the  background,  their  backs  to 
the  dark,  their  faces  yearning  toward  the  light. 

More  than  all  other  contemptible  things  in  this  world, 
there  are  two  that  I  loathe  and  despise:  hysteria  in  a 
woman ;  fear  and  cowardice  in  a  man.  The  first  turns  me 
to  ice.  I  cannot  sympathize  with  hysteria.  The  second 
turns  my  stomach.  Cowardice  in  a  man  is  to  me  positively 
nauseous.  And  this  fear-smitten  mass  of  human  animals 
on  our  reeling  poop  raised  my  gorge.  Truly,  had  I  been  a 
god  at  that  moment,  I  should  have  annihilated  the  whole 
mess  of  them. — No;  I  should  have  been  merciful  to  one. 
He  was  the  Faun.  His  bright,  pain-liquid  and  flashing- 
eager  eyes  strained  from  face  to  face  with  desire  to  under 
stand.  He  did  not  know  what  had  occurred,  and,  being 
stone-deaf,  had  thought  the  rush  aft  a  response  to  a  call 
for  all  hands. 

I  noticed  Mr.  Mellaire.  He  may  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Pike, 
and  he  is  a  murderer;  but  at  any  rate  he  has  no  fear  of 
rhc  supernatural.  With  two  men  above  him  in  authority, 
r/Hliough  it  was  his  watch,  xhere  was  no  call  for  him  to 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         235 

do  anything.  He  swayed  back  and  forth  in  balance  to  the 
violent  motions  of  the  Elsinore  and  looked  on  with  eyes 
that  were  amused  and  cynical. 

''What  does  the  devil  look  like,  my  man?"  Captain 
West  asked. 

Bert  Rhine  grinned  sheepishly. 

' '  Answer  the  captain ! ' '  Mr.  Pike  snarled  at  him. 

Oh,  it  was  murder,  sheer  murder,  that  leapt  into  the 
gangster's  eyes  for  the  instant,  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
snarl.  Then  he  replied  to  Captain  West: 

"I  didn't  wait  to  see,  sir.  But  it's  one  whale  of  a 
devil." 

"He's  as  big  as  a  elephant,  sir,"  volunteered  Bill  Quig- 
ley.  ' '  I  seen  'm  face  to  face,  sir.  He  almost  got  me  when 
I  run  out  of  the  fo'c's'le." 

''Oh,  Lord,  sir,"  Larry  moaned.  "The  way  he  hit  the 
house,  sir.  It  was  the  call  to  Judgment." 

"Your  theology  is  mixed,  my  man,"  Captain  West  smiled 
quietly,  though  I  could  not  help  seeing  how  tired  was  his 
face  and  how  tired  were  his  wonderful  Samurai  eyes. 

He  turned  to  the  mate. 

' '  Mr.  Pike,  will  you  please  go  for  'ard  and  interview  this 
devil.  Fasten  him  up  and  tie  him  down,  and  I'll  take  a 
look  at  him  in  the  morning." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pike;  and  Kipling's  line  came  to 
me:  "Woman,  Man,  or  God  or  Devil,  was  there  anything 
we  feared?" 

And  as  I  went  for  'ard  through  the  wall  of  darkness  after 
Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire  along  the  freezing,  slender,  sea- 
swept  bridge — not  a  sailor  dared  to  accompany  us — other 
lines  of  "The  Galley  Slave"  drifted  through  my  brain, 
such  as: 

' '  Our  bulkheads  bulged  with  cotton  and  our  masts  were  stepped  in 

gold  .  .  . 
We  ran  a  mighty  merchandise  of  niggers  in  the  hold " 


236         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

And: 

»4By  the  brand  upon  my  shoulder,  by  the  gall  of  clinging  steel; 
By  the  welts  the  whips  have   left  me,  by   the  scars  that  never 
heal  .  .  .  ." 

And: 

"Battered  chain-gangs  of  the  orlop,  grizzled  drafts  of  years  gone 
by  .  .  ." 

And  I  caught  my  great,  radiant  vision  of  Mr.  Pike,  gal 
ley  slave  of  the  race,  and  a  driver  of  men  under  men 
greater  than  he;  the  faithful  henchman,  the  able  sailor- 
man,  battered  and  grizzled,  branded  and  galled,  the  serv 
ant  of  the  sweep-head  that  made  mastery  of  the  sea.  I 
know  him  now.  He  can  never  again  offend  me.  I  forgive 
him  everything — the  whiskey  raw  on  his  breath  the  day 
I  came  aboard  at  Baltimore,  his  moroseness  when  sea  and 
wind  do  not  favor,  his  savagery  to  the  men,  his  snarl  and 
his  sneer. 

On  top  the  'midship  house  we  got  a  ducking  that  makes 
me  shiver  to  recall.  I  had  dressed  toe  hastily  properly  to 
fasten  my  oilskin  about  my  neck,  so  that  I  was  wet  to  the 
skin.  We  crossed  the  next  span  of  bridge  through  driving 
spray,  and  were  well  upon  the  top  of  the  for'ard  house 
when  something  adrift  on  the  deck  hit  the  for'ard  wall  a 
terrific  smash. 

' '  Whatever  it  is,  it 's  playing  the  devil, ' '  Mr.  Pike  yelled 
in  my  ear,  as  he  endeavored  to  locate  the  thing  by  the  dry- 
battery  light  stick  which  he  carried. 

The  pencil  of  light  traveled  over  dark  water,  white  with 
foam,  that  churned  upon  the  deck. 

'  *  There  it  goes ! ' '  Mr.  Pike  cried,  as  the  Elsinore  dipped 
by  the  head  and  hurtled  the  water  for'ard. 

The  light  went  out  as  the  three  of  us  caught  holds  and 
crouched  to  a  deluge  of  water  from  overside.  As  we 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         237 

emerged,  from  under  the  forecastle  head  we  heard  a  tremen 
dous  thumping  and  battering.  Then,  as  the  bow  lifted,  for 
an  instant  in  the  pencil  of  light  that  immediately  lost  it 
I  glimpsed  a  vague  black  object  that  bounded  down  the 
inclined  deck  where  no  water  was.  What  became  of  it 
we  could  not  see. 

Mr.  Pike  descended  to  the  deck,  followed  by  Mr.  Mel- 
laire.  Again,  as  the  Elsinore  dipped  by  the  head  and 
fetched  a  surge  of  seawater  from  aft  along  the  runway,  I 
saw  the  dark  object  bound  for'ard  directly  at  the  mates. 
They  sprang  to  safety  from  its  charge,  the  light  went  out, 
while  another  icy  sea  broke  aboard. 

For  a  time  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  two  men.  Next,  in 
the  light  flashed  from  the  stick,  I  guessed  that  Mr.  Pike 
was  in  pursuit  of  the  thing.  He  evidently  must  have  cap 
tured  it  at  the  rail  against  the  starboard  rigging  and  caught 
a  turn  around  it  with  a  loose  end  of  rope.  As  the  vessel 
rolled  to  windward  some  sort  of  a  struggle  seemed  to  be 
going  on.  The  second  mate  sprang  to  the  mate's  assist 
ance,  and  together,  with  more  loose  ends,  they  seemed  to 
subdue  the  thing. 

I  descended  to  see.  By  the  light  stick  we  made  it  out 
to  be  a  large,  barnacle-crusted  cask. 

"She's  been  afloat  for  forty  years,"  was  Mr.  Pike's  judg 
ment.  * '  Look  at  the  size  of  the  barnacles,  and  look  at  the 
whiskers. ' ' 

' '  And  it 's  full  of  something, ' '  said  Mr.  Mellaire.  ' '  Hope 
it  isn't  water." 

I  rashly  lent  a  hand  when  they  started  to  work  the  cask 
for'ard,  between  seas  and  taking  advantage  of  the  rolls 
and  pitches,  to  the  shelter  under  the  forecastle  head.  As 
a  result,  even  through  my  mittens,  I  was  cut  by  the  sharp 
edges  of  broken  shell. 

* '  It 's  liquor  of  some  sort, ' '  said  the  mate,  ' '  but  we.  won 't 
risk  broaching  it  till  morning." 


238        THE   MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

' '  But  where  did  it  come  from  ? "  I  asked. 

'  *  Over  the  side 's  the  only  place  it  could  have  come  from. ' ' 
Mr.  Pike  played  the  light  over  it.  '  *  Look  at  it !  It 's  been 
afloat  for  years  and  years." 

"The  stuff  ought  to  be  well-seasoned,"  commented  Mr. 
Mellaire. 

Leaving  them  to  lash  the  cask  securely,  I  stole  along  the 
deck  to  the  forecastle  and  peered  in.  The  men,  in  their 
headlong  flight,  had  neglected  to  close  the  doors,  and  the 
place  was  afloat.  In  the  flickering  light  from  a  small  and 
'very  smoky  sea-lamp  it  was  a  dismal  picture.  No  self- 
respecting  caveman,  I  am  sure,  would  have  lived  in  such 
a  hole. 

Even  as  I  looked,  a  bursting  sea  filled  the  runway  be 
tween  the  house  and  rail,  and  through  the  doorway  in 
which  I  stood  the  freezing  water  rushed  waist-deep.  I  had 
to  hold  on  to  escape  being  swept  inside  the  room.  From  a 
top  bunk,  lying  on  his  side,  Andy  Fay  regarded  me  stead 
ily  with  his  bitter  blue  eyes.  Seated  on  the  rough  table  of 
heavy  planks,  his  sea-booted  feet  swinging  in  the  water, 
Mulligan  Jacobs  pulled  at  his  pipe.  When  he  observed  me 
he  pointed  to  pulpy  book  pages  that  floated  about. 

' '  Me  library 's  gone  to  hell, ' '  he  mourned  as  he  indicated 
the  flotsam.  "There's  me  Byron.  An'  there  goes  Zola  an' 
Browning  with  a  piece  of  Shakespeare  runnin'  neck  an' 
neck,  an'  what's  left  of  'Anti-Christ'  makin'  a  bad  last. 
An'  there's  Carlyle  and  Zola  that  cheek  by  jowl  you  can't 
tell  'm  apart." 

Here  the  Elsinore  lay  down  to  starboard,  and  the  water 
in  the  forecastle  poured  out  against  my  legs  and  hips.  My 
wet  mittens  slipped  on  the  ironwork,  and  I  swept  down 
the  runway  into  the  scuppers,  where  I  was  turned  over 
and  over  by  another  flood  that  had  just  boarded  from 
windward. 

I  know  I  was  rather  confused,  and  that  I  had  swallowed 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         239 

quite  a  deal  of  salt  water,  ere  I  got  my  hands  on  the  rungs 
of  the  ladder  and  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  house.  On  my 
way  aft  along  the  bridge  I  encountered  the  crew  coming 
for'ard.  Mr.  Mellaire  and  Mr.  Pike  were  talking  in  the  lee 
of  the  charthouse,  and  inside,  as  I  passed  below,  Captain 
West  was  smoking  a  cigar. 

After  a  good  rubdown,  in  dry  pajamas,  I  was  scarcely 
back  in  my  bunk  with  the  "Mind  of  Primitive  Man"  be 
fore  me,  when  the  stampede  over  my  head  was  repeated. 
I  waited  for  the  second  rush.  It  came,  and  I  proceeded 
to  dress. 

The  scene  on  the  poop  duplicated  the  previous  one,  save 
that  the  men  were  more  excited,  more  frightened.  They 
were  babbling  and  chattering  all  together. 

"Shut  up!"  Mr.  Pike  was  snarling  when  I  came  upon 
them.  ' l One  at  a  time  and  answer  the  captain's  question. " 

"It  ain't  no  barrel  this  time,  sir,"  Tom  Spink  said.  "It's 
alive.  An'  if  it  ain't  the  devil,  it's  the  ghost  of  a  drowned 
man.  I  see  'm  plain  an>  clear.  He's  a  man,  or  was  a 
man  once " 

"They  was  two  of  'em,  sir,"  Richard  Giller,  one  of  the 
"bricklayers,"  broke  in. 

"I  think  he  looked  like  Petro  Marinkovich,  sir,"  Tom 
Spink  went  on. 

"An'  the  other  was  Jespersen — I  seen  'm,"  Giller  added. 

"They  was  three  of  'ern,  sir,"  said  Nosey  Murphy. 
"0 'Sullivan,  sir,  was  the  other  one.  They  ain't  devils, 
sir.  They're  drowned  men.  They  come  aboard  right  over 
the  bows,  an'  they  moved  slow,  like  drowned  men.  Soren- 
sen  seen  the  first  one  first.  He  caught  my  arm  an '  pointed, 
an'  then  I  seen  'm.  We  was  on  top  the  for'ard  house. 
And  Olansen  seen  'm,  an'  Deacon,  sir,  an'  Hackey.  We 
all  seen  'm,  sir;  .  .  .  an'  the  second  one;  an'  when  the 
rest  run  away  I  stayed  long  enough  to  see  the  third  one. 
Mebbe  there's  more.  I  didn't  wait  to  see." 


240         THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOKE 

Captain  "West  stopped  the  man. 

"Mr.  Pike,"  he  said  wearily,  "will  you  straighten  this 
nonsense  out?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Mr.  Pike  responded,  then  turned  on  the 
men.  "Come  on,  all  of  you!  There's  three  devils  to  tie 
down  this  time." 

But  the  men  shrank  away  from  the  order  and  from  him. 

"For  two  cents  ..."  I  heard  Mr.  Pike  growl  to  him 
self,  then  choke  off  utterance. 

He  flung  about  on  his  heel  and  started  for  the  bridge. 
In  the  same  order  as  on  the  previous  trip,  Mr.  Mellaire 
second  and  I  bringing  up  the  rear,  we  followed.  It  was  a 
similar  journey,  save  that  we  caught  a  ducking  midway 
on  the  first  span  of  bridge  as  well  as  a  ducking  on  the 
'midship  house. 

We  halted  on  top  the  for'ard  house.  In  vain  Mr.  Pike 
flashed  his  light  stick.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  nor  heard 
save  the  white-flecked  dark  water  on  our  deck,  the  roar  of 
the  gale  in  our  rigging,  and  the  crash  and  thunder  of  seas 
falling  aboard.  We  advanced  halfway  across  the  last  span 
of  bridge  to  the  forecastle  head,  and  were  driven  to  pause 
and  hang  on  at  the  foremast  by  a  bursting  sea. 

Between  the  drives  of  spray  Mr.  Pike  flashed  his  stick.  I 
heard  him  exclaim  something.  Then  he  went  on  to  the 
forecastle  head,  followed  by  Mr.  Mellaire,  while  I  waited 
by  the  foremast,  clinging  tight,  and  endured  another  duck 
ing.  Through  the  emergences  I  could  see  the  pencil  of 
light,  appearing  and  disappearing,  darting  here  and  there. 
Several  minutes  later  the  mates  were  back  with  me. 

"Half  our  headgear's  carried  away,"  Mr.  Pike  told  me. 
"We  must  have  run  into  something." 

"I  felt  a  jar,  right  after  you  went  below,  sir,  last  time," 
said  Mr.  Mellaire.  "Only  I  thought  it  was  a  thump  of 
sea." 

"So  did  I  feel  it,"  the  mate  agreed.     "I  was  just  taking 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         241 

off  my  boots.  I  thought  it  was  a  sea.  But  where  are  the 
three  devils?" 

''Broaching  the  cask/'  the  second  mate  suggested. 

We  made  the  forecastle  head,  descended  the  iron  ladder, 
and  went  for  'ard,  inside,  underneath,  out  of  the  wind  and 
sea.  There  lay  the  cask,  securely  lashed.  The  size  of  the 
barnacles  on  it  was  astonishing.  They  were  as  large  as 
apples  and  inches  deep.  A  down-fling  of  bow  brought  a 
foot  of  water  about  our  boots;  and  as  the  bow  lifted  and 
the  water  drained  away,  it  drew  out  from  the  shell-crusted 
cask  streamers  of  seaweed  a  foot  or  so  in  length. 

Led  by  Mr.  Pike  and  watching  our  chance  between  seas, 
we  searched  the  deck  and  rails  between  the  forecastle  head 
and  the  for 'ard  house,  and  found  no  devils.  The  mate 
stepped  into  the  forecastle  doorway,  and  his  light  stick 
cut  like  a  dagger  through  the  dim  illumination  of  the 
murky  sea-lamp.  And  we  saw  the  devils.  Nosey  Murphy 
had  been  right.  There  were  three  of  them. 

Let  me  give  the  picture :  A  drenched  and  freezing  room 
of  rusty,  paint-scabbed  iron,  low-roofed,  double-tiered  with 
bunks,  reeking  with  the  filth  of  thirty  men,  despite  the 
washing  of  the  sea.  In  the  top  bunk.  on.  his  side,  in  sea- 
boots  and  oilskins,  staring  steadily  with  blue,  bitter  eyes, 
Andy  Fay;  on  the  table,  pulling  at  a 'pipe,  with  hanging 
legs  dragged  this  way  and  that  by  the  churn  of  water, 
Mulligan  Jacobs,  solemnly  regarding  three  men,  sea-booted 
and  bloody,  who  stand  side  by  side,  of  a  height  and  not 
duly  tall,  swaying  in  unison  to  the  Elsinore's  downflinging 
a'nd  uplifting. 

But  such  men !  I  know  my  East  Side  and  my  East  End, 
and  I  am  accustomed  to  the  faces  of  all  the  ruck  of  races, 
yet  with  these  three  men  I  was  at  fault.  The  Mediter 
ranean  had  surely  never  bred  such  a  breed ;  nor  had  Scan 
dinavia.  They  were  not  blonds.  They  were  not  brunettes. 
Nor  were  they  of  the  Brown,  or  Black,  or  Yellow.  Their 


242         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

skin  was  white  under  a  bronze  of  weather.  Wet  as  was 
their  hair,  it  was  plainly  a  colorless,  sandy  hair.  Yet  their 
eyes  were  dark — and  yet  not  dark.  They  were  neither 
blue,  nor  gray,  nor  green,  nor  hazel.  Nor  were  they  black. 
They  were  topaz,  pale  topaz;  and  they  gleamed  and 
dreamed  like  the  eyes  of  great  cats.  They  regarded  us 
like  walkers  in  a  dream,  these  pale-haired  storm  waifs  with 
pale  topaz  eyes.  They  did  not  bow,  they  did  not  smile,  in 
no  way  did  they  recognize  our  presence  save  that  they 
looked  at  us  and  dreamed. 

But  Andy  Fay  greeted  us. 

"It's  a  hell  of  a  night,  an'  not  a  wink  of  sleep  with  these 
goings-on,"  he  said. 

"Now  where  did  they  blow  in  from  a  night  like  this?" 
Mulligan  Jacobs  complained. 

"You've  got  a  tongue  in  your  mouth,"  Mr.  Pike  snarled. 
"Why  ain't  you  asked  'em?" 

"As  though  you  didn't  know  I  could  use  the  tongue  in 
me  mouth,  you  old  stiff,"  Jacobs  snarled  back. 

But  it  was  no  time  for  their  private  feud.  Mr.  Pike 
turned  on  the  dreaming  newcomers  and  addressed  them  in 
the  mangled  and  aborted  phtfases  of  a  dozen  languages  such 
as  the  world-wandering  Anglo-Saxon  has  had  every  oppor 
tunity  to  learn  but  is  too  stubborn-brained  and  wilful- 
mouthed  to  wrap  his  tongue  about. 

The  visitors  made  no  reply.  They  did  not  even  shake 
their  heads.  Their  faces  remained  peculiarly  relaxed  and 
placid,  incurious  and  pleasant,  while  in  their  eyes  floated 
profounder  dreams.  Yet  they  were  human.  The  blood  of 
their  injuries  stained  them  and  clotted  on  their  clothes. 

"Dutchmen,"  snorted  Mr.  Pike,  with  all  due  contempt 
for  other  breeds,  as  he  waved  them  to  make  themselves  at 
home  in  any  of  the  bunks. 

Mr.  Pike's  ethnology  is  narrow.     Outside  his  own  race, 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         243 

he  is  aware  of  only  three  races:  Niggers,  Dutchmen,  and 
Dagoes. 

Again  our  visitors  proved  themselves  human.  They 
understood  the  mate's  invitation,  and,  glancing  first  at  one 
another,  they  climbed  into  three  top  bunks  and  closed  their 
eyes.  I  could  swear  the  first  of  them  was  asleep  in  half 
a  minute. 

' '  We  '11  have  to  clean  up  for  'ard,  or  we  '11  be  having  the 
sticks  about  our  ears,"  the  mate  said,  already  starting  to 
depart.  "Get  the  men  along,  Mr.  Mellaire,  and  call  out 
the  carpenter." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

AND  no  westing!  We  have  been  swept  back  three  de 
grees  of  easting  since  the  night  our  visitors  came  on  board. 
They  are  the  great  mystery,  these  three  men  of  the  sea. 
"Horn  gypsies,"  Margaret  calls  them;  and  Mr.  Pike  dubs 
them  "Dutchmen."  One  thing  is  certain,  they  have  a 
language  of  their  own  which  they  talk  with  one  another. 
But  of  our  hotch-potch  of  nationalities  fore  and  aft  there 
is  no  person  who  catches  an  inkling  of  their  language  or 
nationality. 

Mr.  Mellaire  raised  the  theory  that  they  were  Finns  of 
some  sort,  but  this  was  indignantly  denied  by  our  big- 
footed  youth  of  a  carpenter  who  swears  he  is  a  Finn  him 
self.  Louis,  the  cook,  avers  that  somewhere  over  the  world, 
on  some  forgotten  voyage,  he  has  encountered  men  of  their 
type;  but  he  can  neither  remember  the  voyage  nor  their 
race.  He  and  the  rest  of  the  Asiatics  accept  their  presence 
as  a  matter  of  course;  but  the  crew,  with  the  exception 
of  Andy  Fay  and  Mulligan  Jacobs,  is  very  superstitious 
about  the  newcomers,  and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them. 

"No  good  will  come  of  them,  sir,"  Tom  Spink,  at  the 
wheel,  told  us,  shaking  his  head  forebodingly. 

Margaret's  mittened  hand  rested  on  my  arm  as  we  bal 
anced  to  the  easy  roll  of  the  ship.  We  had  paused  from 
our  promenade,  which  we  now  take  each  day  religiously, 
as  a  constitutional,  between  eleven  and  twelve. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  them?"  she  queried, 
nudging  me  privily  in  warning  of  what  was  coming. 

"Because  they  ain't  men,  miss,  as  we  can  rightly  call 
men.  They  ain't  regular  men." 

244 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         245 

"It  was  a  bit  irregular,  their  manner  of  coming  on 
board,"  she  gurgled. 

"That's  just  it,  miss,"  Tom  Spink  exclaimed,  brighten 
ing  perceptibly  at  the  hint  of  understanding.  "  Where  'd 
they  come  from?  They  won't  tell.  Of  course  they  won't 
tell.  They  ain't  men.  They're  spirits — ghosts  of  sailors 
that  drowned  as  long  ago  as  when  that  cask  went  adrift 
from  a  sinkin'  ship,  an'  that's  years  an'  years,  miss,  as 
anybody  can  see,  lookin '  at  the  size  of  the  barnacles  on  it. ' ' 

"Do  you  think  so?"  Margaret  queried. 

"We  all  think  so,  miss.  We  ain't  spent  our  lives  on  the 
sea  for  nothin'.  There's  no  end  of  landsmen  don't  believe 
in  the  Flyin'  Dutchman.  But  what  do  they  know? 
They're  just  landsmen,  ain't  they?  They  ain't  never  had 
their  leg  grabbed  by  a  ghost,  such  as  I  had,  on  the  Kath 
leen,  thirty-five  years  ago,  down  in  the  hold  'tween  the 
water  casks.  An'  didn't  that  ghost  rip  the  shoe  right  off 
of  me?  An'  didn't  I  fall  through  the  hatch  two  days  later 
an'  break  my  shoulder? 

"Now,  miss,  I  seen  'em  makin'  signs  to  Mr.  Pike  that 
we'd  run  into  their  ship  hove  to  on  the  other  tack.  Don't 
you  believe  it.  There  wasn't  no  ship." 

' '  But  how  do  you  explain  the  carrying  away  of  our  head 
gear?"  I  demanded. 

"There's  lots  of  things  can't  be  explained,  sir,"  was 
Tom  Spink 's  answer.  "Who  can  explain  the  way  the  Finns 
plays  tomfool  tricks  with  the  weather?  Yet  everybody 
knows  it.  Why  are  we  havin'  a  hard  passage  around  the 
Horn,  sir?  I  ask  you  that.  Why,  sir?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Because  of  the  carpenter,  sir.  We've  found  out  he's  a 
Finn.  Why  did  he  keep  it  quiet  all  the  way  down  from 
Baltimore?" 

"Why  did  he  tell  it?"  Margaret  challenged. 

"He  didn't  tell  it,  miss — leastways,  not  until  after  them 


246         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

three  others  boarded  us.  I  got  my  suspicions  he  knows 
more  about  'm  than  he's  lettin'  on.  An'  look  at  the  weather 
an'  the  delay  we're  gettin'.  An'  don't  everybody  know 
the  Finns  is  regular  warlocks  an '  weather  breeders  ? ' ' 

My  ears  pricked  up. 

" Where  did  you  get  that  word  warlock?"  I  questioned. 

Tom  Spink  looked  puzzled. 

" What's  wrong  with  it,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing.     It's  all  right.     But  where  did  you  get  it?" 

' '  I  never  got  it,  sir.  I  always  had  it.  That 's  what  Finns 
is — warlocks. ' ' 

"And  these  three  newcomers — they  aren't  Finns?" 
asked  Margaret. 

The  old  Englishman  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"No,  miss.  They're  drownded  sailors  a  long  time 
drownded.  All  you  have  to  do  is  look  at  'm.  An'  the  car 
penter  could  tell  us  a  few  if  he  was  minded." 

Nevertheless,  our  mysterious  visitors  are  a  welcome  ad 
dition  to  our  weakened  crew.  I  watch  them  at  work.  They 
are  strong  and  willing.  Mr.  Pike  says  they  are  real  sailor- 
men,  even  if  he  doesn  't  understand  their  lingo.  His  theory 
is  that  they  are  from  some  small  old-country  or  outlander 
ship,  which,  hove  to  on  the  opposite  tack  to  the  Elsinore, 
was  run  down  and  sunk. 

I  have  forgotten  to  say  that  we  found  the  barnacled 
cask  nearly  filled  with  a  most  delicious  wine  which  none 
of  us  can  name.  As  soon  as  the  gale  moderated,  Mr.  Pike 
had  the  cask  brought  aft  and  broached,  and  now  the 
steward  and  Wada  have  it  all  in  bottles  and  spare  demi 
johns.  It  is  beautifully  aged,  and  Mr.  Pike  is  certain  that 
it  is  some  sort  of  a  mild  and  unheard-of  brandy.  Mr. 
Mellaire  merely  smacks  his  lips  over  it,  while  Captain 
West,  Margaret,  and  I  steadfastly  maintain  that  it  is 
wine. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         247 

The  condition  of  the  men  grows  deplorable.  They  were 
always  poor  at  pulling  on  ropes,  but  now  it  takes  two  or 
three  to  pull  as  much  as  one  used  to  pull.  One  thing  in 
their  favor  is  that  they  are  well,  though  grossly,  fed.  They 
have  all  they  want  to  eat,  such  as  it  is,  but  it  is  the  cold, 
and  wet,  the  terrible  condition  of  the  forecastle,  the  lack 
of  sleep,  and  the  almost  continuous  toil  of  both  watches  on 
deck.  Either  watch  is  so  weak  and  worthless  that  any 
severe  task  requires  the  assistance  of  the  other  watch.  As 
an  instance,  we  finally  managed  a  reef  in  the  foresail  in 
the  thick  of  a  gale.  It  took  both  watches  two  hours,  yet 
Mr.  Pike  tells  me  that,  under  similar  circumstances,  with 
an  average  crew  of  the  old  days,  he  has  seen  a  single  watch 
reef  the  foresail  in  twenty  minutes. 

I  have  learned  one  of  the  prime  virtues  of  a  steel  sailing- 
ship.  Such  a  craft,  heavily  laden,  does  not  strain  her 
seams  open  in  bad  weather  and  big  seas.  Except  for  a 
tiny  leak  down  in  the  fore-peak,  with  which  we  sailed  from 
Baltimore  and  which  is  bailed  out  with  a  pail  once  in  sev 
eral  weeks,  the  Etiinore  is  bone-dry.  Mr.  Pike  tells  me 
that  had  a  wooden  ship  of  her  size  and  cargo  gone  through 
the  buffeting  we  have  endured,  she  would  be  leaking  like  a 
sieve. 

And  Mr.  Mellaire,  out  of  his  own  experience,  has  added 
to  my  respect  for  the  Horn.  When  he  was  a  young  man 
he  was  once  eight  weeks  in  making  around  from  50  in  the 
Atlantic  to  50  in  the  Pacific.  Another  time,  his  vessel  was 
compelled  to  put  back  twice  to  the  Falklands  for  repairs. 
And  still  another  time,  in  a  wooden  ship  running  back  in 
distress  to  the  Falklands,  his  vessel  was  lost  in  a  shift  of 
gale  in  the  very  entrance  to  Port  Stanley.  As  he  told  me : 

"And  after  we'd  been  there  a  month,  sir,  who  should 
come  in  but  the  old  Lucy  Powers.  She  was  a  sight ! — her 
foremast  clean  gone  out  of  her  and  half  her  spars,  the  old 
man  killed  from  one  of  the  spars  falling  on  him,  the  mate 


248         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

with  two  broken  arms,  the  second  mate  sick,  and  what  was 
left  of  the  crew  at  the  pumps.  We'd  lost  our  ship,  so  my 
skipper  took  charge,  refitted  her,  doubled  up  both  crews, 
and  we  headed  the  other  way  around,  pumping  two  hours 
in  every  watch  clear  to  Honolulu." 

The  poor  wretched  chickens !  Because  of  their  ill-judged 
moulting  they  are  quite  featherless.  It  is  a  marvel  that 
one  of  them  survives,  yet  so  far  we  have  lost  only  six. 
Margaret  keeps  the  kerosene  stove  going,  and,  though  they 
have  ceased  laying,  she  confidently  asserts  that  they  are  all 
layers  and  that  we  shall  have  plenty  of  eggs  once  we  get 
fine  weather  in  the  Pacific. 

There  is  little  use  to  describe  these  monotonous  and 
perpetual  westerly  gales.  One  is  very  like  another,  and 
they  follow  so  fast  on  one  another 's  heels  that  the  sea  never 
has  a  chance  to  grow  calm.  So  long  have  we  rolled  and 
tossed  about  that  the  thought,  say,  of  a  solid,  unmoving 
billiard  table  is  inconceivable.  In  previous  incarnations 
I  have  encountered  things  that  did  not  move,  but  .  .  . 
they  were  in  previous  incarnations. 

We  have  been  up  to  the  Diego  Ramirez  Rocks  twice  in 
the  past  ten  days.  At  the  present  moment,  by  vague  dead 
reckoning,  we  are  two  hundred  miles  east  of  them.  We 
have  been  hove  down  to  our  hatches  three  times  in  the 
last  week.  We  have  had  six  stout  sails,  of  the  heaviest 
canvas,  furled  and  double-gasketed,  torn  loose  and  stripped 
from  the  yards.  Sometimes,  so  weak  are  our  men,  not 
more  than  half  of  them  can  respond  to  the  call  for  all 
hands. 

Lars  Jacobsen,  who  had  his  leg  broken  early  in  the 
voyage,  was  knocked  down  by  a  sea  several  days  back  and 
had  the  leg  rebroken.  Ditman  Olansen,  the  crank-eyed 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         249 

Norwegian,  went  Berserker  last  night  in  the  second  dog 
watch  and  pretty  well  cleaned  out  his  half  of  the  fore 
castle.  Wada  reports  that  it  required  the  bricklayers, 
Fitzgibbon  and  Gilder,  the  Maltese  Cockney,  and  Steve 
Roberts,  the  cowboy,  finally  to  subdue  the  madman.  These 
are  all  men  of  Mr.  Mellaire's  watch.  In  Mr.  Pike's  watch, 
John  Hackey,  the  San  Francisco  hoodlum,  who  has  stood 
out  against  the  gangsters,  has  at  last  succumbed  and  joined 
them.  And  only  this  morning  Mr.  Pike  dragged  Charles 
Davis  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  out  of  the  forecastle,  where 
he  had  caught  him  expounding  sea-law  to  the  miserable 
creatures.  Mr.  Mellaire,  I  notice  on  occasion,  remains  un 
duly  intimate  with  the  gangster  clique.  And  yet  nothing 
serious  happens. 

And  Charles  Davis  does  not  die.  He  seems  actually  to 
be  gaining  in  weight.  He  never  misses  a  meal.  From 
the  break  of  the  poop,  in  the  shelter  of  the  weather  cloth, 
our  decks  a  thunder  and  rush  of  freezing  water,  I  often 
watch  him  slip  out  of  his  room  between  seas,  mug  and 
plate  in  hand,  and  hobble  for'ard  to  the  galley  for  his  food. 
He  is  a  keen  judge  of  the  ship 's  motions,  for  never  yet  have 
I  seen  him  get  a  serious  ducking.  Sometimes,  of  course, 
he  may  get  splattered  with  spray  or  wet  to  the  knees,  but 
he  manages  to  be  out  of  the  way  whenever  a  big  graybeard 
falls  on  board. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

A  WONDERFUL  event  to-day !  For  five  minutes,  at  noon, 
the  sun  was  actually  visible.  But  such  a  sun ! — a  pale  and 
cold  and  sickly  orb  that  at  meridian  was  only  9°  18'  above 
the  horizon.  And  within  the  hour  we  were  taking  in  sail 
and  lying  down  to  the  snow-gusts  of  a  fresh  southwest  gale. 

Whatever  you  do,  make  westing!  make  westing! — this 
sailing  rule  of  the  navigators  for  the  Horn  has  been  bitten 
out  of  iron.  I  can  understand  why  shipmasters,  with  a 
favoring  slant  of  wind,  have  left  sailors,  fallen  overboard, 
to  drown  without  heaving  to  to  lower  a  boat.  Cape  Horn 
is  iron,  and  it  takes  masters  of  iron  to  win  around  from 
east  to  west. 

And  we  make  easting!  This  west  wind  is  eternal.  I 
listen  incredulously  when  Mr.  Pike  or  Mr.  Mellaire  tell 
of  times  when  easterly  winds  have  blown  in  these  latitudes. 
It  is  impossible.  Always  does  the  west  wind  blow,  gale 
upon  gale  and  gales  everlasting,  else  why  the  "  Great  West 
Wind  Drift"  printed  on  the  charts?  We  of  the  after 
guard  are  weary  of  this  eternal  buffeting.  Our  men  have 
become  pulpy,  washed-out,  sore-corroded  shadows  of  men. 
I  should  not  be  surprised,  in  the  end,  to  see  Captain  West 
turn  tail  and  run  eastward  around  the  world  to  Seattle. 
But  Margaret  smiles  with  surety,  and  nods  her  head,  and 
affirms  that  her  father  will  win  around  to  50  in  the  Pacific. 

How  Charles  Davis  survives  in  that  wet,  freezing,  paint- 
scabbed  room  of  iron  in  the  'midship  house  is  beyond  me — 
just  as  it  is  beyond  me  that  the  wretched  sailors  in  the 
wretched  forecastle  do  not  lie  down  in  their  bunks  and  die, 
or,  at  least,  refuse  to  answer  the  call  of  the  watches. 

250 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         251 

Another  week  has  passed,  and  we  are  to-day,  by  observa 
tion,  sixty  miles  due  south  of  the  Straits  of  Le  Maire,  and 
we  are  hove  to,  in  a  driving  gale,  on  the  port  tack.  The 
glass  is  down  to  28.58,  and  even  Mr.  Pike  acknowledges 
that  it  is  one  of  the  worst  Cape  Horn  snorters  he  has  ever 
experienced. 

In  the  old  days,  the  navigators  used  to  strive  as  far 
south  as  64°  or  65°,  into  the  antarctic  drift  ice,  hoping, 
in  a  favoring  spell,  to  make  westing  at  a  prodigious  rate 
across  the  extreme-narrowing  wedges  of  longitude.  But 
of  late  years,  all  shipmasters  have  accepted  the  hugging 
of  the  land  all  the  way  around.  Out  of  ten  times  ten 
thousand  passages  of  Cape  Stiff  from  east  to  west,  this, 
they  have  concluded,  is  the  best  strategy.  So  Captain 
West  hugs  the  land.  He  heaves  to  on  the  port  tack  until 
the  leeward  drift  brings  the  land  into  perilous  proximity, 
then  wears  ship  and  heaves  to  on  the  starboard  tack  and 
makes  leeway  off  shore. 

I  may  be  Weary  of  all  this  bitter  movement  of  a  labor 
ing  ship  on  a  frigid  sea,  but  at  the  same  time  I  do  not 
mind  it.  In  my  brain  burns  the  flame  of  a  great  discovery 
and  a  great  achievement.  I  have  found  what  makes  all 
the  books  go  glimmering;  I  have  achieved  what  my  very 
philosophy  tells  me  is  the  greatest  achievement  a  man  can 
make.  I  have  found  the  love  of  woman.  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  cares  for  me.  Nor  is  that  the  point.  The 
point  is  that,  in  myself,  I  have  risen  to  the  greatest  height 
to  which  the  human  male  animal  can  rise. 

I  know  a  woman  and  her  name  is  Margaret.  She  is 
Margaret,  a  woman  and  desirable.  My  blood  isjred.  I  am 
not  the  pallid  scholar  I  so  proudly  deemed  myself  to  be. 
I  am  a  man,  and  a  lover,  despite  the  books.  As  for  De 
Casseres — if  ever  I  get  back  to  New  York,  equipped  as  I 
now  am,  I  shall  confute  him  with  the  same  ease  that  he 


252         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

has  confuted  all  the  schools.  Love  is  the  final  word.  To 
the  rational  man  it  alone  gives  the  super-rational  sanction 
for  living.  Like  Bergson  in  his  overhanging  heaven  of 
intuition,  or  like  one  who  has  bathed  in  Pentecostal  fire 
and  seen  the  New  Jerusalem,  so  I  have  trod  the  material 
istic  dictums  of  science  underfoot,  scaled  the  last  peak  of 
philosophy,  and  leaped  into  my  heaven,  which,  after  all, 
is  within  myself.  The  stuff  that  composes  me,  that  is  I, 
is  so  made  that  it  finds  its  supreme  realization  in  the  love 
of  woman.  It  is  the  vindication  of  being.  Yes,  and  it  is 
the  wages  of  being,  the  payment  in  full  for  all  the  brittle- 
ness  and  frailty  of  flesh  and  breath. 

And  she  is  only  a  woman,  like  any  woman,  and  the  Lord 
knows  I  know  what  women  are.  And  I  know  Margaret  for 
what  she  is — mere  woman;  and  yet  I  know,  in  the  lover's 
soul  of  me,  that  she  is  somehow  different.  Her  ways  are 
not  as  the  ways  of  other  women,  and  all  her  ways  are  de 
lightful  to  me.  In  the  end,  I  suppose,  I  shall  become  a 
nest-builder,  for  of  a  surety  nest-building  is  one  of  her 
pretty  ways.  And  who  shall  say  which  is  the  worthier — 
the  writing  of  a  whole  library  or  the  building  of  a  nest? 

The  monotonous  days,  bleak  and  gray  and  soggy  cold, 
drag  by.  It  is  now  a  month  since  we  began  the  passage  of 
the  Horn,  and  here  we  are,  not  so  well  forward  as  a  month 
ago,  because  we  are  something  like  a  hundred  miles  south 
of  the  Straits  of  Le  Maire.  Even  this  position  is  con 
jectural,  being  arrived  at  by  dead  reckoning,  based  on  the 
leeway  of  a  ship  hove  to,  now  on  the  one  tack,  now  on  the 
other,  with  always  the  Great  West  Wind  Drift  making 
against  us.  It  is  four  days  since  our  last  instrument-sight 
of  the  sun. 

This  storm-vexed  ocean  has  become  populous.  No  ships 
are  getting  around,  and  each  day  adds  to  our  number. 
Never  a  brief  day  passes  without  our  sighting  from  two 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE         253 

or  three  to  a  dozen  hove  to  on  port  tack  or  starboard  tack. 
Captain  West  estimates  there  must  be  at  least  two  hundred 
sail  of  us.  A  ship  hove  to  with  preventer  tackles  on  the 
rudder-head  is  unmanageable.  Each  night  we  take  our 
chance  of  unavoidable  and  disastrous  collision.  And  at 
times,  glimpsed  through  the  snow-squalls,  we  see  and  curse 
the  ships,  east-bound,  that  drive  past  us  with  the  "West 
Wind  and  the  West  Wind  Drift  at  their  backs.  And  so 
wild  is  the  mind  of  man  that  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire 
still  aver  that  on  occasion  they  have  known  gales  to  blow 
ships  from  east  to  west  around  the  Horn.  It  surely  has 
been  a  year  since  we  of  the  Elsinore  emerged  from  under 
the  lee  of  Tierra  Del  Fuego  into  the  snorting  southwest 
gales.  A  century,  at  least,  has  elapsed  since  we  sailed  from 
Baltimore. 

And  I  don't  give  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  all  the  wrath 
and  fury  of  this  dim-gray  sea  at  the  tip  of  the  earth.  I 
have  told  Margaret  that  I  love  her.  The  tale  was  told  in 
the  shelter  of  the  weather-cloth,  where  we  clung  together 
in  the  second  dog-watch  last  evening.  And  it  was  told 
again,  and  by  both  of  us,  in  the  bright-lighted  chart-room 
after  the  watches  had  been  changed  at  eight  bells.  Yes, 
and  her  face  was  storm-bright,  and  all  of  her  was  very 
proud,  save  that  her  eyes  were  warm  and  soft  and  fluttered 
with  lids  that  just  would  flutter  maidenly  and  womanly. 
It  was  a  great  hour — our  great  hour. 

A  poor  devil  of  a  man  is  most  lucky  when,  loving,  he 
is  loved.  Grievous  indeed  must  be  the  fate  of  the  lover 
who  is  unloved.  And  I,  for  one,  and  for  still  other  reasons, 
congratulate  myself  upon  the  vastitude  of  my  good  for 
tune.  For  see,  were  Margaret  any  other  sort  of  a  woman, 
were  she  .  .  .  well,  just  the  lovely  and  lovable  and  ador 
ably  snuggly  sort  who  seem  made  just  precisely  for  love 
and  loving  and  nestling  into  the  strong  arms  of  a  man — 


254         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

why,  there  wouldn't  be  anything  remarkable  or  wonderful 
about  her  loving  me.  But  Margaret  is  Margaret,  strong, 
self-possessed,  serene,  controlled,  a  very  mistress  of  her 
self.  And  there's  the  miracle — that  such  a  woman  should 
have  been  awakened  to  love  by  me.  It  is  almost  unbeliev 
able.  I  go  out  of  my  way  to  get  another  peep  into  those 
long,  cool,  gray  eyes  of  hers  and  see  them  grow  melting 
soft  as  she  looks  at  me.  She  is  no  Juliet,  thank  the  Lord ; 
and  thank  the  Lord  I  am  no  Romeo.  And  yet  I  go  up 
alone  on  the  freezing  poop  and  under  my  breath  chant 
defiantly  at  the  snorting  gale,  and  at  the  graybeards  thun 
dering  down  on  us,  that  I  am  a  lover.  And  I  send  mes 
sages  to  the  lonely  albatrosses  veering  through  the  murk 
that  I  am  a  lover.  And  I  look  at  the  wretched  sailors 
crawling  along  the  spray-swept  bridge  and  know  that 
never  in  ten  thousand  wretched  lives  could  they  experience 
the  love  I  experience,  and  I  wonder  why  God  ever  made 
them. 


"And  the  one  thing  I  had  firmly  resolved  from  the 
start,"  Margaret  confessed  to  me  this  morning  in  the 
cabin,  when  I  released  her  from  my  arms,  "was  that  I 
would  not  permit  you  to  make  love  to  me." 

"True  daughter  of  Herodias,"  I  gaily  gibed,  "so  such 
was  the  drift  of  your  thoughts  even  as  early  as  the  very 
start.  Already  you  were  looking  upon  me  with  a  consider- 
ative  female  eye." 

She  laughed  proudly,  and  did  not  reply. 

"What  possibly  could  have  led  you  to  expect  that  I 
would  make  love  to  you?"  I  insisted. 

' '  Because  it  is  the  way  of  young  male  passengers  on  long 
voyages,"  she  replied. 

"Then  others  have  ...   ?" 

"They  always  do,"  she  assured  me  gravely. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         255 

And  at  that  instant  I  knew  the  first  ridiculous  pang  of 
jealousy;  but  I  laughed  it  away  and  retorted: 

"It  was  an  ancient  Chinese  philosopher  who  is  first  re 
corded  as  having  said,  what  doubtlessly  the  cave  men  before 
him  gibbered,  namely,  that  a  woman  pursues  a  man  by 
fluttering  away  in  advance  of  him.'7 

"Wretch!"  she  cried.  "I  never  fluttered.  When  did  I 
ever  flutter?" 

"It  is  a  delicate  subject.  ..."  I  began  with  assumed 
hesitancy. 

"When  did  I  ever  flutter?"  she  demanded. 

I  availed  myself  of  one  of  Schopenhauer's  ruses  by 
making  a  shift. 

"From  the  first  you  observed  nothing  that  a  female 
could  afford  to  miss  observing,"  I  charged.  "I'll  wager 
you  knew  as  quickly  as  I  the  very  instant  when  I  first 
lo^ed  you." 

"I  knew  the  first  time  you  hated  me,"  she  evaded. 

"Yes,  I  know,  the  first  time  I  saw  you  and  learned  that 
you  were  coming  on  the  voyage,"  I  said.  "But  now  I 
repeat  my  challenge.  You  knew  as  quickly  as  I  the  first 
instant  I  loved  you." 

Oh,  her  eyes  were  beautiful,  and  the  repose  and  certitude 
of  her  were  tremendous,  as  she  rested  her  hand  on  my 
arm  for  a  moment  and  in  a  low,  quiet  voice  said : 

"Yes,  I  ...  I  think  I  know.  It  was  the  morning  of 
that  pampero  off  the  Plate,  when  you  were  thrown  through 
the  door  into  my  father's  stateroom.  I  saw  it  in  your 
eyes.  I  knew  it.  I  think  it  was  the  first  time,  the  very 
instant. ' ' 

I  could  only  nod  my  head  and  draw  her  close  to  me. 
And  she  looked  up  at  me  and  added: 

"You  were  very  ridiculous.  There  you  sat,  on  the  bed, 
holding  on  with  one  hand  and  nursing  the  other  hand 
under  your  arm,  staring  at  me,  irritated,  startled,  utterly 


256         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

foolish,  and  then  .  .  .  how,  I  don 't  know  ...  I  knew  that 
you  had  just  come  to  know.  ..." 

''And  the  very  next  instant  you  froze  up,"  I  charged 
ungallantly. 

"And  that  was  why,"  she  admitted  shamelessly,  then 
leaned  away  from  me,  her  hands  resting  on  my  shoulders, 
while  she  gurgled  and  her  lips  parted  from  over  her  beau 
tiful  white  teeth. 

One  thing  I,  John  Pathurst,  know :  that  gurgling  laugh 
ter  of  hers  is  the  most  adorable  laughter  that  was  ever 
heard. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

I  WONDER.  I  wonder.  Did  the  Samurai  make  a  mis 
take?  Or  was  it  the  darkness  of  oncoming  death  that 
chilled  and  clouded  that  star-cool  brain  of  his  and  made 
a  mock  of  all  his  wisdom?  Or  was  it  the  blunder  that 
brought  death  upon  him  beforehand?  I  do  not  know,  I 
shall  never  know;  for  it  is  a  matter  no  one  of  us  dreams 
of  hinting  at,  much  less  discussing. 

I  shall  begin  at  the  beginning — yesterday  afternoon. 
For  it  was  yesterday  afternoon,  five  weeks  to  a  day  since 
we  emerged  from  the  Straits  of  Le  Maire  into  this  gray 
storm-ocean,  that  once  again  we  found  ourselves  hove  to 
directly  off  the  Horn.  At  the  changing  of  the  watches  at 
four  o'clock,  Captain  "West  gave  the  command  to  Mr.  Pike 
to  wear  ship.  We  were  on  the  starboard  tack  at  the  time, 
making  leeway  off  shore.  This  maneuver  placed  us  on  the 
port  tack,  and  the  consequent  leeway,  to  me,  seemed  on 
shore,  though  at  an  acute  angle,  to  be  sure. 

In  the  chart-room,  glancing  curiously  at  the  chart,  I 
measured  the  distance  with  my  eye  and  decided  that  we 
were  in  the  neighborhood  of  fifteen  miles  off  Cape  Horn. 

''With  our  drift  we'll  be  close  up  under  the  land  by 
morning,  won't  we?"  I  ventured  tentatively. 

"Yes,"  Captain  West  nodded,  "and  if  it  weren't  for 
the  West  Wind  Drift,  and  if  the  land  did  not  trend  to 
the  northeast,  we'd  be  ashore  by  morning.  As  it  is,  we'll 
be  well  under  it  at  daylight,  ready  to  steal  around  if  there 
is  a  change,  ready  to  wear  ship  if  there  is  no  change. ' ' 

It  did  not  enter  my  head  to  question  his  judgment. 
What  he  said  had  to  be.  Was  he  not  the  Samurai? 

257 


258         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

And  yet,  a  few  minutes  later,  when  he  had  gone  below, 
I  noticed  Mr.  Pike  enter  the  chart-house.  After  several 
paces  up  and  down  and  a  brief  pause  to  watch  Nancy  and 
several  men  shift  the  weather-cloth  from  lee  to  weather,  I 
strol-led  aft  to  the  chart-house.  Prompted  by  I  know  not 
what,  I  peeped  through  one  of  the  glass  ports. 

There  stood  Mr.  Pike,  his  sou'wester  doffed,  his  oilskins 
streaming  rivulets  to  the  floor  while  he,  dividers  and  paral 
lel  rulers  in  hand,  bent  over  the  chart.  It  was  the  expres 
sion  of  his  face  that  startled  me.  The  habitual  sourness 
had  vanished.  All  that  I  could  see  was  anxiety  and  appre 
hension  .  .  .  yes,  and  age.  I  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
old;  for  there,  at  that  moment,  I  beheld  the  wastage  and 
weariness  of  all  his  sixty-nine  years  of  sea-battling  and  sea- 
staring. 

I  slipped  away  from  the  port  and  went  along  the  deck 
to  the  break  of  the  poop,  where  I  held  on  and  stood  staring 
through  the  gray  and  spray  in  the  conjectural  direction 
of  our  drift.  Somewhere,  there,  in  the  northeast  and 
north,  I  knew  was  a  broken,  iron  coast  of  rocks  upon  which 
the  graybeards  thundered.  And  there,  in  the  chart-room, 
a  redoubtable  sailorman  bent  anxiously  over  a  chart  as 
he  measured  and  calculated,  and  measured  and  calculated 
again,  our  position  and  our  drift. 

And  I  knew  it  could  not  be.  It  was  not  the  Samurai 
but  the  henchman  who  was  weak  and  wrong.  Age  was 
beginning  to  tell  upon  him  at  last,  which  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  expected  when  one  considered  that  no  man 
in  ten  thousand  had  weathered  age  so  successfully  as  he. 

I  laughed  at  my  moment's  qualm  of  foolishness  and 
went  below,  well  content  to  meet  my  loved  one  and  to  rest 
secure  in  her  father's  wisdom.  Of  course  he  was  right. 
He  had  proved  himself  right  too  often  already  on  the  long 
voyage  from  Baltimore. 

At  dinner,  Mr.  Pike  was  quite  distrait.    He  took  no  part 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         259 

whatever  in  the  conversation,  and  seemed  always  to  be 
listening  to  something  from  without — to  the  vexing  clang 
of  taut  ropes  that  came  down  the  hollow  jigger  mast,  to 
the  muffled  roar  of  the  gale  in  the  rigging,  to  the  smash 
and  crash  of  the  seas  along  our  decks  and  against  our  iron 
walls. 

Again  I  found  myself  sharing  his  apprehension,  al 
though  I  was  too  discreet  to  question  him  then,  or  after 
ward  alone,  about  his  trouble.  At  eight  he  went  on  deck 
again  to  take  the  watch  till  midnight,  and  as  I  went  to  bed 
I  dismissed  all  forebodings  and  speculated  as  to  how  many 
more  voyages  he  could  last  after  this  sudden  onslaught  of 
old  age. 

I  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  awoke  at  midnight,  my  lamp 
still  burning,  Conrad's  "Mirror  of  the  Sea"  on  my  breast 
where  it  had  dropped  from  my  hands.  I  heard  the  watches 
change,  and  was  wide  awake  and  reading  when  Mr.  Pike 
came  below  by  the  booby  hatch  and  passed  down  my  hall 
by  my  open  door,  on  his  way  to  his  room. 

In  the  pause  I  had  long  since  learned  so  well,  I  knew 
he  was  rolling  a  cigarette.  Then  I  heard  him  cough,  as 
he  always  did,  when  the  cigarette  was  lighted  and  the  first 
inhalation  of  smoke  flushed  his  lungs. 

At  twelve-fifteen,  in  the  midst  of  Conrad's  delightful 
chapter,  "The  Weight  of  the  Burden,"  I  heard  Mr.  Pike 
come  along  the  hall. 

Stealing  a  glance  over  the  top  of  my  book,  I  saw  him 
go  by,  sea-booted,  oilskinned,  sou 'westered.  It  was  his 
watch  below,  and  his  sleep  was  meager  in  this  perpetual 
bad  weather,  yet  he  was  going  on  deck. 

I  read  and  waited  for  an  hour,  but  he  did  not  return; 
and  I  knew  that  somewhere  up  above  he  was  staring  into 
the  driving  dark.  I  dressed  fully,  in  all  my  heavy  storm- 
gear,  from  sea-boots  and  sou'wester  to  sheepskin  under  my 
oilskin  coat.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  I  noted  along  the 


260         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOKE 

hall  that  Margaret's  light  was  burning.  I  peeped  in — she 
keeps  her  door  open  for  ventilation — and  found  her  read 
ing. 

''Merely  not  sleepy,"  she  assured  me. 

Nor  in  the  heart  of  me  do  I  believe  she  had  any  appre 
hension.  She  does  not  know  even  now,  I  am  confident,  the 
Samurai's  blunder — if  blunder  it  was.  As  she  said,  she 
was  merely  not  sleepy,  although  there  is  no  telling  in  what 
occult  ways  she  may  have  received  though  not  recognized 
Mr.  Pike's  anxiety. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs,  passing  along  the  tiny  hall  to 
go  out  the  lee  door  of  the  chart-house,  I  glanced  into  the 
chart-room.  On  the  couch,  lying  on  his  back,  his  head  un 
comfortably  high  I  thought,  slept  Captain  West.  The 
room  was  warm  from  the  ascending  heat  of  the  cabin,  so 
that  he  lay  unblanketed,  fully  dressed  save  for  oilskins  and 
boots.  He  breathed  easily  and  steadily,  and  the  lean, 
ascetic  lines  of  his  face  seemed  softened  by  the  light  of  the 
low-turned  lamp.  And  that  one  glance  restored  to  me  all 
my  surety  and  faith  in  his  wisdom,  so  that  I  laughed  at 
myself  for  having  left  my  warm  bed  for  a  freezing  trip  on 
deck. 

Under  the  weather  cloth  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  I 
found  Mr.  Mellaire.  He  was  wide  awake,  but  under  no 
strain.  Evidently  it  had  not  entered  his  mind  to  con 
sider,  much  less  question,  the  maneuver  of  wearing  ship 
the  previous  afternoon. 

'  *  The  gale  is  breaking, ' '  he  told  me,  waving  his  mittened 
hand  at  a  starry-segment  of  sky  momentarily  exposed  by 
the  thinning  clouds. 

But  where  was  Mr.  Pike?  Did  the  second  mate  know 
he  was  on  deck?  I  proceeded  to  feel  Mr.  Mellaire  out  as 
we  worked  our  way  aft  along  the  mad  poop  toward  the 
wheel.  I  talked  about  the  difficulty  of  sleeping  in  stormy 
weather,  stated  the  restlessness  and  semi-insomnia  that 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         261 

the  violent  motion  of  the  ship  caused  in  me,  and  raised 
the  query  of  how  bad  weather  affected  the  officers. 

"I  noticed  Captain  "West,  in  the  chart-room,  as  I  came 
up,  sleeping  like  a  baby,"  I  concluded. 

We  leaned  in  the  lee  of  the  chart-house  and  went  no 
further. 

"  Trust  us  to  sleep  just  the  same  way,  Mr.  Pathurst," 
the  second  mate  laughed.  "The  harder  the  weather  the 
harder  the  demand  on  us,  and  the  harder  we  sleep.  I'm 
dead  the  moment  my  head  touches  the  pillow.  It  takes 
Mr.  Pike  longer,  because  he  always  finishes  his  cigarette 
after  he  turns  in.  But  he  smokes  while  he's  undressing, 
so  that  he  doesn't  require  more  than  a  minute  to  go  deado. 
I'll  wager  he  hasn't  moved,  right  now,  since  ten  minutes 
after  twelve." 

So  the  second  mate  did  not  dream  the  first  was  even 
then  on  deck.  I  went  below  to  make  sure.  A  small  sea- 
lamp  was  burning  in  Mr.  Pike's  room,  and  I  saw  his  bunk 
unoccupied.  I  went  in  by  the  big  stove  in  the  dining-room 
and  warmed  up,  then  again  came  on  deck.  I  did  not  go 
near  the  weather-cloth,  where  I  was  certain  Mr.  Mellaire 
was,  but,  keeping  along  the  lee  of  the  poop,  I  gained  the 
bridge  and  started  for'ard. 

I  was  in  no  hurry,  so  I  paused  often  in  that  cold,  wet 
journey.  The  gale  was  breaking,  for  again  and  again  the 
stars  glimmered  through  the  thinning  storm-clouds.  On 
the  'midship  house  was  no  Mr.  Pike.  I  crossed  it,  stung 
by  the  freezing,  flying  spray,  and  carefully  reconnoitered 
the  top  of  the  for-ard  house,  where,  in  such  bad  weather, 
I  knew  the  lookout  was  stationed.  I  was  within  twenty 
feet  of  them,  when  a  wider  clearance  of  starry  sky  showed 
me  the  figures  of  the  lookout,  whoever  he  was,  and  of  Mr. 
Pike,  side  by  side.  Long  I  watched  them,  not  making  my 
presence  known,  and  I  knew  that  the  old  mate's  eyes  were 
boring  like  gimlets  into  the  windy  darkness  that  separated 


262         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  Elsinore  from  the  thunder-surfed  iron  coast  he  sought 
to  find. 

Coming  back  to  the  poop,  I  was  caught  by  the  surprised 
Mr.  Mellaire. 

"Thought  you  were  asleep,  sir,"  he  chided. 

"I'm  too  restless,"  I  explained.  "I've  read  until  my 
eyes  are  tired,  and  now  I'm  trying  to  get  chilled  so  that 
I  can  fall  asleep  while  warming  up  in  my  blankets." 

"I  envy  you,  sir,"  he  answered.  "Think  of  it!  So 
much  of  all  night  in  that  you  cannot  sleep.  Some  day, 
if  ever  I  make  a  lucky  strike,  I  shall  make  a  voyage  like 
this  as  a  passenger,  and  have  all  watches  below.  Think 
of  it !  All  blessed  watches  below !  And  I  shall,  like  you, 
sir,  bring  a  Jap  servant  along,  and  I'll  make  him  call  me 
at  every  changing  of  the  watches,  so  that,  wide  awake,  I 
can  appreciate  my  good  fortune  in  the  several  minutes 
before  I  roll  over  and  go  to  sleep  again." 

We  laughed  good  night  to  each  other.  Another  peep 
into  the  chart-room  showed  me  Captain  West  sleeping  as 
before.  He  had  not  moved  in  general,  though  all  his  body 
moved  with  every  roll  and  fling  of  the  ship.  Below,  Mar 
garet's  light  still  burned,  but  a  peep  showed  her  asleep, 
her  book  fallen  from  her  hands  just  as  was  the  so  frequent 
case  with  my  books. 

And  I  wondered.  Half  the  souls  of  us  on  the  Elsinore 
slept.  The  Samurai  slept.  Yet  the  old  first  mate,  who 
should  have  slept,  kept  a  bitter  watch  on  the  for'ard  house. 
Was  his  anxiety  right  ?  Could  it  be  right  ?  Or  was  it  the 
crankiness  of  ultimate  age?  Were  we  drifting  and  lee- 
waying  to  destruction  ?  Or  was  it  merely  an  old  man  being 
struck  down  by  senility  in  the  midst  of  his  life-task? 

Too  wide  awake  to  think  of  sleeping,  I  ensconced  myself 
with  "The  Mirror  of  the  Sea"  at  the  dining  table.  Nor 
did  I  remove  aught  of  my  storm-gear  save  the  soggy  mit 
tens,  which  I  wrung  out  and  hung  to  dry  by  the  stove. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         263 

Four  bells  struck,  and  six  bells,  and  Mr.  Pike  had  not  re 
turned  below.  At  eight  bells,  with  the  changing  of  the 
watches,  it  came  upon  me  what  a  night  of  hardship  the 
old  mate  was  enduring.  Eight  to  twelve  had  been  his  own 
watch  on  deck.  He  had  now  completed  the  four  hours  of 
the  second  mate 's  watch  and  was  beginning  his  own  watch, 
which  would  last  till  eight  in  the  morning — twelve  con 
secutive  hours  in  a  Cape  Horn  gale  with  the  mercury  at 
freezing. 

Next — for  I  had  dozed — I  heard  loud  cries  above  my 
head  that  were  repeated  along  the  poop.  I  did  not  know 
till  afterward  that  it  was  Mr.  Pike's  command  to  hard-up 
the  helm,  passed  along  from  for'ard  by  the  men  he  had 
stationed  at  intervals  on  the  bridge. 

All  that  I  knew  at  this  shock  of  waking  was  that  some 
thing  was  happening  above.  As  I  pulled  on  my  steaming 
mittens  and  hurried  my  best  up  the  reeling  stairs,  I  could 
hear  the  stamp  of  men 's  feet  that  for  once  were  not  lagging. 
When  I  was  in  the  chart-house  hall  I  heard  Mr.  Pike,  who 
had  already  covered  the  length  of  the  bridge  from  the 
for'ard  house,  shouting: 

*  *  Mizzen  braces !  Slack,  damn  you !  Slack  on  the  run ! 
But  hold  a  turn !  Aft,  here,  all  of  you !  Jump !  Lively, 
if  you  don 't  want  to  swim !  Come  in,  port  braces !  Don 't 
let  'em  get  away!  Lee  braces! — if  you  lose  that  turn 
I  '11  split  your  skull !  Lively !  Lively ! — Is  that  helm  hard 
over?  Why  in  hell  don't  you  answer?" 

All  this  I  heard  as  I  dashed  for  the  lee  door  and  as  I 
wondered  why  I  did  not  hear  the  Samurai's  voice.  Then, 
as  I  passed  the  chart-room  door,  I  saw  him.  He  was  sit 
ting  on  the  couch,  white-faced,  one  sea-boot  in  his  hands, 
and  I  could  have  sworn  his  hands  were  shaking.  That 
much  I  saw,  and  the  next  moment  was  out  on  deck. 

At  first,  just  emerged  from  the  light,  I  could  see  noth 
ing,  although  I  could  hear  men  at  the  pin-rails  and  the 


264         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

mate  snarling  and  shouting  commands.  But  I  knew  the 
maneuver.  With  a  weak  crew,  in  the  big,  tail-end  sea  of 
a  broken  gale,  breakers  and  destruction  under  her  lee,  the 
Elsinore  was  being  worn  around.  We  had  been  under 
lower  topsails  and  a  reefed  foresail  all  night.  Mr.  Pike's 
first  action,  after  putting  the  wheel  up,  had  been  to  square 
the  mizzen  yards.  With  the  wind-pressure  thus  eased  aft, 
the  stern  could  more  easily  swing  against  the  wind  while 
the  wind  pressure  on  the  for  'ard  sails  paid  the  bow  off. 

But  it  takes  time  to  wrear  a  ship,  under  short  canvas,  in  a 
big  sea,  Slowly,  very  slowly,  I  could  feel  the  direction  of 
the  wind  altering  against  my  cheek.  The  moon,  dim  at 
first,  showed  brighter  and  brighter  as  the  last  shreds  of  a 
flying  cloud  drove  away  from  before  it.  In  vain  I  looked 
for  any  land. 

"Main  braces! — all  of  you! — jump!"  Mr.  Pike  shouted, 
himself  leading  the  rush  along  the  poop.  And  the 
men  really  rushed.  Not  in  all  the  months  I  had  observed 
them  had  I  seen  such  swiftness  of  energy. 

I  made  my  way  to  the  wheel  where  Tom  Spink  stood. 
He  did  not  notice  me.  With  one  hand  holding  the  idle 
wheel,  he  was  leaning  out  to  one  side,  his  eyes  fixed  in  a 
fascinated  stare.  I  followed  its  direction,  on  between  the 
chart-house  and  the  port-jigger  shrouds,  and  on  across  a 
mountain  sea  that  was  very  vague  in  the  moonlight.  And 
then  I  saw  it!  The  Elsinore' 's  stern  was  flung  skyward, 
and  across  that  cold  ocean  I  saw  land — black  rocks  and 
snow-covered  slopes  and  crags.  And  toward  this  land  the 
Elsinore,  now  almost  before  the  wind,  was  driving. 

From  the  'midship  house  came  the  snarls  of  the  mate 
and  the  cries  of  the  sailors.  They  were  pulling  and  haul 
ing  for  very  life.  Then  came  Mr.  Pike,  across  the  poop, 
leaping  with  incredible  swiftness,  sending  his  snarl  before 
him. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         265 

"Ease  that  wheel  there !  "What  the  hell  you  gawkin'  at ? 
Steady  her  as  I  tell  you!  That's  all  you  got  to  do !" 

From  for'ard  came  a  cry,  and  I  knew  Mr.  Mellaire  was 
on  top  of  the  for'ard  house  and  managing  the  fore-yards. 

"Now!"— from  Mr.  Pike.  "More  spokes!  Steady! 
Steady!  And  be  ready  to  check  her!" 

He  bounded  away  along  the  poop  again,  shouting  for 
men  for  the  mizzen  braces.  And  the  men  appeared,  some 
of  his  watch,  others  of  the  second  mate's  watch,  routed 
from  sleep — men  coatless,  and  hatless,  and  bootless;  men 
ghastly-faced  with  fear  but  eager  for  once  to  spring  to  the 
orders  of  the  man  who  knew  and  could  save  their  miserable 
lives  from  miserable  death.  Yes — and  I  noted  the  delicate- 
handed  cook,  and  Yatsuda,  the  sail-maker,  pulling  with  his 
one  unparalyzed  hand.  It  was  all  hands  to  save  ship,  and 
all  hands  knew  it.  Even  Sundry  Buyers,  who  had  drifted 
aft  in  his  stupidity  instead  of  being  for'ard  with  his  own 
officer,  forebore  to  stare  about  and  to  press  his  abdomen. 
For  the  nonce  he  pulled  like  a  youngling  of  twenty. 

The  moon  covered  again,  and  it  was  in  darkness  that  the 
Elsinore  rounded  up  on  the  wind  on  the  starboard  tack. 
This,  in  her  case,  under  lower  topsails  only,  meant  that 
she  lay  eight  points  from  the  wind,  or,  in  land  terms,  at 
right  angles  to  the  wind. 

Mr.  Pike  was  splendid,  marvelous.  Even  as  the  Elsinore 
was  rounding  to  on  the  wind,  while  the  head  yards  were 
still  being  braced,  and  even  as  he  was  watching  the  ship's 
behavior  and  the  wheel,  in  between  his  commands  to  Tom 
Spink  of  "A  spoke!  A  spoke  or  two!  Another!  Steady! 
Hold  her!  Ease  her!"  he  was  ordering  the  men  aloft  to 
loose  sail.  I  had  thought,  the  maneuver  of  wearing 
achieved,  that  we  were  saved,  but  this  setting  of  all  three 
upper  topsails  unconvinced  me. 

The  moon  remained  hidden,  and  to  leeward  nothing  could 
be  seen.  As  each  sail  was  set,  the  Elsinore  was  pressed 


266         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

farther  and  farther  over,  and  I  realized  that  there  was 
plenty  of  wind  left  despite  the  fact  that  the  gale  had 
broken  or  was  breaking.  Also,  under  this  additional  can 
vas,  I  could  feel  the  Elsinore  moving  through  the  water. 
Pike  now  sent  the  Maltese  Cockney  to  help  Tom  Spink  at 
the  wheel.  As  for  himself,  he  took  his  stand  beside  the 
booby  hatch,  where  he  could  gauge  the  Elsinore,  gaze  to 
leeward,-  and  keep  his  eye  on  the  helmsmen. 

"Full  and  by,"  was  his  reiterated  command.  "Keep 
her  a  good  full — a  rap-full;  but  don't  let  her  fall  away. 
Hold  her  to  it,  and  drive  her." 

He  took  no  notice  whatever  of  me,  although  I,  on  my 
way  to  the  lee  of  the  chart-house,  stood  at  his  shoulder  a 
full  minute,  offering  him  a  chance  to  speak.  He  knew  I 
was  there,  for  his  big  shoulder  brushed  my  arm  as  he 
swayed  and  turned  to  warn  the  helmsmen  in  the  one  breath 
to  hold  her  up  to  it  but  to  keep  her  full.  He  had  neither 
time  nor  courtesy  for  a  passenger  in  such  a  moment. 

Sheltering  by  the  chart-house,  I  saw  the  moon  appear. 
It  grew  brighter  and  brighter,  and  I  saw  the  land,  dead 
to  leeward  of  us,  not  three  hundred  yards  away.  It  was  a 
cruel  sight — black  rock  and  bitter  snow,  with  cliffs  so  per 
pendicular  that  the  Elsinore  could  have  laid  alongside  of 
them  in  deep  water,  with  great  gashes  and  fissures,  and 
with  great  surges  thundering  and  spouting  along  all  the 
length  of  it. 

Our  predicament  was  now  clear  to  me.  "We  had  to 
weather  the  bight  of  land  and  islands  into  which  we  had 
drifted,  and  sea  and  wind  worked  directly  on  shore.  The 
only  way  out  was  to  drive  through  the  water,  to  drive  fast 
and  hard,  and  this  was  borne  in  upon  me  by  Mr.  Pike 
bounding  past  to  the  break  of  the  poop,  where  I  heard 
him  shout  to  Mr.  Mellaire  to  set  the  mainsail. 

Evidently  the  second  mate  was  dubious,  for  the  next  cry 
of  Mr.  Pike's  was: 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         267 

"Damn  the  reef!  You'd  be  in  hell  first!  Full  main 
sail!  All  hands  to  it!" 

The  difference  was  appreciable  at  once  when  that  huge 
spread  of  canvas  opposed  the  wind.  The  Elsinore  fairly 
leaped  and  quivered  as  she  sprang  to  it,  and  I  could  feel 
her  eat  to  windward  as  she  at  the  same  time  drove  faster 
ahead.  Also,  in  the  rolls  and  gusts  she  was  forced  down 
till  her  lee-rail  buried  and  the  sea  foamed  level  across  to 
her  hatches.  Mr.  Pike  watched  her  like  a  hawk,  and  like 
certain  death  he  watched  the  Maltese  Cockney  and  Tom 
Spink  at  the  wheel. 

"Land  on  the  lee  bow!"  come  a  cry  from  for'ard  that 
was  carried  on  from  mouth  to  mouth  along  the  bridge  to 
the  poop. 

I  saw  Mr.  Pike  nod  his  head  grimly  and  sarcastically. 
He  had  already  seen  it  from  the  lee-poop,  and  what  he 
had  not  seen  he  had  guessed.  A  score  of  times  I  saw  him 
test  the  weight  of  the  gusts  on  his  cheek  and  with  all  the 
brain  of  him  study  the  Elsinore' s  behavior.  And  I  knew 
what  Was  in  his  mind.  Could  she  carry  what  she  had? 
Could  she  carry  more? 

Small  wonder,  in  this  tense  passage  of  time,  that  I  had 
forgotten  the  Samurai.  Nor  did  I  remember  him  until 
the  chart-house  door  swung  open  and  I  caught  him  by  the 
arm.  He  steadied  and  swayed  beside  me,  while  he  watched 
that  cruel  picture  of  rock  and  snow  and  spouting  surf. 

"A  good  full!"  Mr.  Tike  snarled.  "Or  I'll  eat  your 
heart  out,  God  damn  you  for  the  farmer's  hound  you  are, 
Tom  Spink !  Ease  her !  Ease  her !  Ease  her  into  the  big 
ones,  damn  you !  Don 't  let  her  head  fall  off !  Steady ! 
Where  in  hell  did  ym  learn  to  steer?  What  cow  farm 
was  you  raised  on?" 

Here  he  bounded  "br'ard  past  us  with  those  incredible 
leaps  of  his. 

"It  would  be  good  to  set  the  mizzen-topgallant, "  I  heard 


268         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Captain  West  mutter  in  a  weak,  quavery  voice.  "Mr. 
Pathurst,  will  you  please  tell  Mr.  Pike  to  set  the  mizzen- 
topgallant. ' ' 

And  at  that  very  instant  Mr.  Pike's  voice  rang  out  from 
the  break  of  the  poop : 

"Mr.  Mellaire! — the  mizzen-topgallant ! ' ' 

Captain  West 's  head  drooped  until  his  chin  rested  on  his 
breast,  and  so  low  did  he  mutter  that  I  leaned  to  hear. 

"A  very  good  officer,"  he  said.  "An  excellent  officer. 
Mr.  Pathurst,  if  you  will  kindly  favor  me,  I  should  like  to 
go  in.  I  ...  I  haven't  got  on  my  boots." 

The  muscular  feat  was  to  open  the  heavy  iron  door  and 
hold  it  open  in  the  rolls  and  plunges.  This  I  accomplished ; 
but  when  I  had  helped  Captain  West  across  the  high 
threshold  he  thanked  me  and  waived  further  services.  And 
I  did  not  know  that  even  then  he  was  dying. 

Never  was  a  Blackwood  ship  driven  as  was  the  Elsinore 
during  the  next  half  hour.  The  full  jib  was  also  set,  and, 
as  it  departed  in  shreds,  the  fore-topmast  staysail  was  being 
hoisted.  For'ard  of  the  'midship  house  it  was  made  un- 
livable  by  the  bursting  seas.  Mr.  Mellaire,  with  half  the 
crew,  clung  on  somehow  on  top  the  'midship  house,  while 
the  rest  of  the  crew  was  with  us  in  the  comparative  safety 
of  the  poop.  Even  Charles  Davis,  drenched  and  shivering, 
hung  on  beside  me  to  the  brass  ring-handle  of  the  chart- 
house  door. 

Such  sailing!  It  was  a  madmss  of  speed  and  motion, 
for  the  Elsinore  drove  over  and  through  and  under  those 
huge  graybeards  that  thundered  shoreward.  There  were 
times,  when  rolls  and  gusts  worked  against  her  at  the  same 
moment,  when  I  could  have  sworn  ihe  ends  of  her  lower 
yard  arms  swept  the  sea. 

It  was  one  chance  in  ten  that  w<  could  claw  off.  All 
knew  it,  and  all  knew  there  was  nc  Jhing  more  to  do  but 
await  the  issue.  And  we  waited  in  silence.  The  only  voice 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         269 

was  that  of  the  mate,  intermittently  cursing,  threatening, 
and  ordering  Tom  Spink  and  the  Maltese  Cockney  at  the 
wheel.  Between  whiles,  and  all  the  while,  he  gauged  the 
gusts,  and  ever  his  eyes  lifted  to  the  main-topgallant  yard. 
He  wanted  to  set  that  one  more  sail.  A  dozen  times  I  saw 
him  half  open  his  mouth  to  give  the  order  he  dared  not 
give.  And  as  I  watched  him,  so  all  watched  him.  Hard 
bitten,  bitter-natured,  sour-featured,  and  snarling-mouthed, 
he  was  the  one  man,  the  henchman  of  the  race,  the  master 
of  the  moment.  ' '  And  where, ' '  was  my  thought,  ' '  0  where 
was  the  Samurai?" 

One  chance  in  ten?  It  was  one  in  a  hundred  as  we 
fought  to  Weather  the  last  bold  tooth  of  rock  that  gashed 
into  sea  and  tempest  between  us  and  open  ocean.  So 
close  were  we  that  I  looked  to  see  our  far-reeling  skysail- 
yard  strike  the  face  of  the  rock.  So  close  were  we,  no 
more  than  a  biscuit  toss  from  its  iron  buttress,  that  as  we 
sank  down  into  the  last  great  trough  between  two  seas  I 
can  swear  every  one  of  us  held  breath  and  waited  for  the 
Elsinore  to  strike. 

Instead^  we  drove  free.  And  as  if  in  very  rage  at  our 
escape,  the  storm  took  that  moment  to  deal  us  the  mightiest 
buffet  of  all.  The  mate  felt  that  monster  sea  coming,  for 
he  sprang  to  the  wheel  ere  the  blow  fell.  I  looked  for  'ard, 
and  I  saw  all  for 'ard  blotted  out  by  the  mountain  of  water 
that  fell  aboard.  The  Elsinore  righted  from  the  shock  and 
reappeared  to  the  eye,  full  of  water  from  rail  to  rail.  Then 
a  gust  caught  her  sails  and  heeled  her  over,  spilling  half 
the  enormous  burden  outboard  again. 

Along  the  bridge  came  the  relayed  cry  of  "Man  over 
board!" 

I  glanced  at  the  mate,  who  had  just  released  the  wheel 
to  the  helmsmen.  He  shook  his  head,  as  if  irritated  by  so 
trivial  a  happening,  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  half- 


270         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

wheel-house,  and  stared  at  the  coast  he  had  escaped,  white 
and  black  and  cold  in  the  moonlight. 

Mr.  Mellaire  came  aft,  and  they  met  beside  me  in  the 
lee  of  the  chart-house. 

"All  hands,  Mr.  Mellaire/'  the  mate  said,  "and  get  the 
mainsail  off  of  her.  After  that,  the  mizzen-topgallant. " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  second. 

"Who  was  it?"  the  mate  asked,  as  Mr.  Mellaire  was 
turning  away. 

"Boney — he  was  no  good  anyway,"  came  the  answer. 

That  was  all.  Boney,  the  Splinter,  was  gone,  and  all 
hands  were  answering  the  command  of  Mr.  Mellaire  to  take 
in  the  mainsail.  But  they  never  took  it  in;  for  at  that 
moment  it  started  to  blow  away  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and 
in  but  few  moments  all  that  was  left  of  it  were  a  few  short, 
slatting  ribbons. 

1 1  Mizzen-topgallantsail ! ' '  Mr.  Pike  ordered. 

Then,  and  for  the  first  time,  he  recognized  my  existence. 

"Well  rid  of  it,"  he  growled.  "It  never  did  set  prop 
erly.  I  was  always  aching  to  get  my  hands  on  the  sail- 
maker  that  made  it." 

On  my  way  below,  a  glance  into  the  chart-room  gave  me 
the  cue  to  the  Samurai's  blunder — if  blunder  it  can  be 
called,  for  no  one  will  ever  know.  He  lay  on  the  floor  in  a 
loose  heap,  rolling  willy-nilly  with  every  roll  of  the 
Elsinore. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

THERE  is  so  much  to  write  about  all  at  once.  In  the  first 
place,  Captain  West.  Not  entirely  unexpected  was  his 
death.  Margaret  tells  me  that  she  was  apprehensive  from 
the  start  of  the  voyage — and  even  before.  It  was  because 
of  her  apprehension  that  she  so  abruptly  changed  her  plans 
and  accompanied  her  father. 

What  really  happened  we  do  not  know,  but  the  agreed 
surmise  is  that  it  was  some  stroke  of  the  heart.  And  yet, 
after  the  stroke,  did  he  not  come  out  on  deck?  Or  could 
the  first  stroke  have  been  followed  by  another  and  fatal 
one  after  I  had  helped  him  inside  through  the  door  ?  And 
even  so,  I  have  never  heard  of  a  heart-stroke  being  pre 
ceded  hours  before  by  a  weakening  of  the  mind.  Captain 
West's  mind  seemed  quite  clear,  and  must  have  been  quite 
clear,  that  last  afternoon  when  he  wore  the  Elsinore  and 
started  the  lee-shore  drift.  In  which  case  it  was  a  blunder. 
The  Samurai  blundered,  and  his  heart  destroyed  him  when 
he  became  aware  of  the  blunder. 

At  any  rate,  the  thought  of  blunder  never  enters  Mar 
garet's  head.  She  accepts,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  it 
was  all  a  part  of  the  oncoming  termination  of  his  sick 
ness.  And  no  one  will  ever  undeceive  her.  Neither  Mr. 
Pike,  Mr.  Mellaire,  nor  I,  among  ourselves,  mentions  a 
whisper  of  what  so  narrowly  missed  causing  disaster.  In 
fact,  Mr.  Pike  does  not  talk  about  the  matter  at  all. — And 
then  again,  might  it  not  have  been  something  different 
from  heart  disease?  Or  heart  disease  complicated  with 
something  else  that  obscured  his  mind  that  afternoon  be 
fore  his  death?  Well,  no  one  knows,  and  I,  for  one,  shall 
not  sit,  even  in  secret  judgment,  on  the  event. 

271 


272         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

At  midday  of  the  day  we  clawed  off  Tierra  Del  Fuego, 
the  Elsinore  was  rolling  in  a  dead  calm,  and  all  afternoon 
she  rolled,  not  a  score  of  miles  off  the  land.  Captain  West 
was  buried  at  four  o'clock,  and  at  eight  bells  that  evening 
Mr.  Pike  assumed  command  and  made  a  few  remarks  to 
both  watches.  They  were  straight-from-the-shoulder  re 
marks,  or,  as  he  called  them,  they  were  '  *  brass  tacks. ' ' 

Among  other  things  he  told  the  sailors  that  they  had  an 
other  boss,  and  that  they  would  toe  the  mark  as  they  never 
had  before.  Up  to  this  time  they  had  been  loafing  in  a 
hotel,  but  from  this  time  on  they  were  going  to  work. 

"On  this  hooker,  from  now  on,"  he  perorated,  "it's 
going  to  be  like  old  times,  when  a  man  jumped  the  last  day 
of  the  voyage  as  well  as  the  first.  And  God  help  the  man 
that  don't  jump.  That's  all.  Relieve  the  wheel  and  look 
out." 

And  yet  the  men  are  in  terribly  wretched  condition.  I 
don't  see  how  they  can  jump.  Another  week  of  westerly 
gales,  alternating  with  brief  periods  of  calm,  has  elapsed, 
making  a  total  of  six  weeks  off  the  Horn.  So  weak  are  the 
men  that  they  have  no  spirit  left  in  them — not  even  the 
gangsters.  And  so  afraid  are  they  of  the  mate  that  they 
really  do  their  best  to  jump  when  he  drives  them,  and  he 
drives  them  all  the  time.  Mr.  Mellaire  shakes  his  head. 

"Wait  till  they  get  around  and  up  into  better  weather," 
he  astonished  me  by  telling  me  the  other  afternoon.  ' '  Wait 
till  they  get  dried  out,  and  rested  up,  with  more  sleep,  and 
their  sores  healed,  and  more  flesh  on  their  bones,  and  more 
spunk  in  their  blood — then  they  won't  stand  for  this  driv 
ing.  Mr.  Pike  can't  realize  that  times  have  changed,  sir, 
and  laws  have  changed,  and  men  have  changed.  He's  an 
old  man,  and  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about." 

"You  mean  you've  been  listening  to  the  talk  of  the 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE          273 

men  ? "  I  challenged  rashly,  all  my  gorge  rising  at  the  un- 
officerlike  conduct  of  this  ship's  officer. 

The  shot  went  home,  for,  in  a  flash,  that  suave  and  gentle 
film  of  light  vanished  from  the  surface  of  the  eyes,  and 
the  watching  fearful  thing  that  lurked  behind  inside  the 
skull  seemed  almost  to  leap  out  at  me,  while  the  cruel  gash 
of  mouth  drew  thinner  and  crueler.  And  at  the  same  time, 
on  my  inner  sight,  was  grotesquely  limned  a  picture  of  a 
brain  pulsing  savagely  against  the  veneer  of  skin  that 
covered  that  cleft  of  skull  beneath  the  dripping  sou  'wester. 
Then  he  controlled  himself,  the  mouth-gash  relaxed,  and 
the  suave  and  gentle  film  drew  again  across  the  eyes. 

"I  mean,  sir,"  he  said  softly,  "that  I  am  speaking  out 
of  a  long  sea  experience.  Times  have  changed.  The  old 
driving  days  are  gone.  And  I  trust,  Mr.  Pathurst,  that 
you  will  not  misunderstand  me  in  the  matter,  nor  mis 
interpret  what  I  have  said." 

Although  the  conversation  drifted  on  to  other  and  calmer 
topics,  I  could  not  ignore  the  fact  that  he  had  not  denied 
listening  to  the  talk  of  the  men.  And  yet,  even  as  Mr. 
Pike  grudgingly  admits,  he  is  a  good  sailorman  and  second 
mate  save  for  his  unholy  intimacy  with  the  men  for'ard — 
an  intimacy  which  even  the  Chinese  cook  and  the  Chinese 
steward  deplore  as  unseamanlike  and  perilous. 

Even  though  men  like  the  gangsters  are  so  worn  down 
by  hardship  that  they  have  no  heart  of  rebellion,  there 
remain  three  of  the  frailest  for'ard  who  will  not  die  and 
who  are  as  spunky  as  ever.  They  are  Andy  Fay,  Mulligan 
Jacobs,  and  Charles  Davis.  What  strange,  abysmal  vitality 
informs  them  is  beyond  all  speculation.  Of  course,  Charles 
Davis  should  have  been  overside  with  a  sack  of  coal  at  his 
feet  long  ago.  And  Andy  Fay  and  Mulligan  Jacobs  are 
only,  and  have  always  been,  wrecked  and  emaciated  wisps 
of  men.  Yet  far  stronger  men  than  they  have  gone  over 
the  side,  and  far  stronger  men  than  they  are  laid  up  right 


274         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

now  in  absolute  physical  helplessness  in  the  soggy  fore 
castle  bunks.  And  these  two  bitter  flames  of  shreds  of 
things  stand  all  their  watches  and  answer  all  calls  for  both 
watches. 

Yes ;  and  the  chickens  have  something  of  this  same  spunk 
of  life  in  them.  Featherless,  semi-frozen  despite  the  oil- 
stove,  sprayed  dripping  on  occasion  by  the  frigid  seas  that 
pound  by  sheer  weight  through  canvas  tarpaulins,  never 
theless  not  a  chicken  has  died.  Is  it  a  matter  of  selection  ? 
Are  these  the  iron-vigored  ones  that  survived  the  hardships 
from  Baltimore  to  the  Horn,  and  are  fitted  to  survive  any 
thing?  Then  for  a  De  Yries  to  take  them,  save  them,  and 
out  of  them  found  the  hardiest  breed  of  chickens  on  the 
planet !  And  after  this  I  shall  always  query  that  phrase, 
most  ancient  in  our  language — "chicken-hearted."  Meas 
ured  by  the  Elsinore's  chickens,  it  is  a  misnomer. 

Nor  are  our  three  Horn  gypsies,  the  storm-visitors  with 
the  dreaming  topaz  eyes,  spunkless.  Held  in  superstitious 
abhorrence  by  the  rest  of  the  crew,  aliens  by  lack  of  any 
.word  of  common  speech,  nevertheless  they  are  good  sailors 
and  are  always  first  to  spring  into  any  enterprise  of  work 
or  peril.  They  have  gone  into  Mr.  Mellaire's  watch,  and 
they  are  quite  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  sailors.  And 
when  there  is  a  delay,  or  wait,  with  nothing  to  do  for  long 
minutes,  they  shoulder  together,  and  stand  and  sway  to  the 
heave  of  deck,  and  dream  far  dreams  in  those  pale  topaz 
eyes,  of  a  country,  I  am  sure,  where  mothers,  with  pale 
topaz  eyes  and  sandy  hair,  birth  sons  and  daughters  that 
breed  true  in  terms  of  topaz  eyes  and  sandy  hair. 

But  the  rest  of  the  crew!  Take  the  Maltese  Cockney. 
He  is  too  keenly  intelligent,  too  sharply  sensitive,  success 
fully  to  endure.  He  is  a  shadow  of  his  former  self.  His 
cheeks  have  fallen  in.  Dark  circles  of  suffering  are  under 
his  eyes,  while  his  eyes,  Latin  and  English  intermingled, 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         275 

are  cavernously  sunken  and  as  bright-burning  as  if  aflame 
with  fever. 

Tom  Spink,  hard-fibered  Anglo-Saxon,  good  seaman  that 
he  is,  long  tried  and  always  proved,  is  quite  wrecked  in 
spirit.  He  is  whining  and  fearful.  So  broken  is  he,  though 
he  still  does  his  work,  that  he  is  prideless  and  shameless. 

"I'll  never  ship  around  the  Horn  again,  sir,''  he  began 
on  me  the  other  day  when  I  greeted  him  good  morning  at 
the  wheel.  "  I  've  sworn  it  before,  but  this  time  I  mean  it. 
Never  again,  sir.  Never  again. ' ' 

"Why  did  you  swear  it  before?"  I  queried. 

"It  was  on  the  Nahoma,  sir,  four  years  ago.  Two  hun 
dred  and  thirty  days  from  Liverpool  to  Frisco.  Think  of 
it,  sir.  Two  hundred  and  thirty  days !  And  we  was  loaded 
with  cement  and  creosote,  and  the  creosote  got  loose.  We 
buried  the  captain  right  here  off  the  Horn.  The  grub  gave 
out.  Most  of  us  nearly  died  of  scurvy.  Every  man  Jack 
of  us  was  carted  to  hospital  in  Frisco.  It  was  plain  hell, 
sir,  that's  what  it  was,  an'  two  hundred  and  thirty  days 
of  it." 

' '  Yet  here  you  are, ' '  I  laughed, ' '  signed  on  another  Horn 
voyage. ' ' 

And  this  morning  Tom  Spink  confided  the  following  to 
me: 

"If  only  we'd  lost  the  carpenter,  sir,  instead  of  Boney." 

I  did  not  catch  his  drift  for  the  moment ;  then  I  remem 
bered.  The  carpenter  was  the  Finn,  the  Jonah,  the  war 
lock  who  played  tricks  with  the  winds  and  despitefully 
used  poor  sailormen. 

Yes,  and  I  make  free  to  confess  that  I  have  grown  well 
weary  of  this  eternal  buffeting  by  the  Great  West  Wind. 
Nor  are  we  alone  in  our  travail  on  this  desolate  ocean. 
Never  a  day  does  the  gray  thin^or  the  snow-squalls  cease, 
that  we  do  not  sight  ships,  west-bound  like  ourselves,  hove 


276         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

to  and  trying  to  hold  on  to  the  meager  westing  they  possess. 
And  occasionally,  when  the  gray  clears  and  lifts,  we  see  a 
lucky  ship,  bound  east,  running  before  it  and  reeling  off 
the  miles.  I  saw  Mr.  Pike,  yesterday,  shaking  his  fist  in  a 
fury  of  hatred  at  one  such  craft  that  flew  insolently  past 
us  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 

And  the  men  are  jumping.  Mr.  Pike  is  driving  with 
those  block-square  fists  of  his,  as  many  a  man 's  face  attests. 
So  weak  are  they,  and  so  terrible  is  he,  that  I  swear  he 
could  whip  either  watch  single-handed.  I  cannot  help 
but  note  that  Mr.  Mellaire  refuses  to  take  part  in  this  driv 
ing.  Yet  I  know  that  he  is  a  trained  driver,  and  that  he 
was  not  averse  to  driving  at  the  outset  of  the  voyage.  But 
now  he  seems  bent  on  keeping  on  good  terms  with  the  crew. 
I  should  like  to  know  what  Mr.  Pike  thinks  of  it,  for  he 
cannot  possibly  be  blind  to  what  is  going  on ;  but  I  am  too 
well  aware  of  what  would  happen  if  I  raised  the  question. 
He  would  insult  me,  snap  my  head  off,  and  indulge  in  a 
three-days'  sea-grouch.  Things  are  sad  and  monotonous 
enough  for  Margaret  and  me  in  the  cabin  and  at  table, 
without  invoking  the  blight  of  the  mate's  displeasure. 


CHAPTER   XL 

ANOTHER  brutal  sea-superstition  vindicated.  From  now 
on  and  for  always  these  imbeciles  of  ours  will  believe  that 
Finns  are  Jonahs.  We  are  west  of  the  Diego  de  Ramirez 
Rocks,  and  we  are  running  west  at  a  twelve-knot  clip  with 
an  easterly  gale  at  our  backs.  And  the  carpenter  is  gone. 
His  passing,  and  the  coming  of  the  easterly  wind,  were 
coincidental. 

It  was  yesterday  morning,  as  he  helped  me  dress,  that  I 
was  struck  by  the  solemnity  of  Wada's  face.  He  shook  his 
head  lugubriously  as  he  broke  the  news.  The  carpenter 
was  missing.  The  ship  had  been  searched  for  him  high  and 
low.  There  just  was  no  carpenter. 

"What  does  the  steward  think?"  I  asked.  "What  does 
Louis  think? — and  Yatsuda?" 

' '  The  sailors,  they  kill  'm  carpenter  sure, ' '  was  the  an 
swer.  "Very  bad  ship  this.  Very  bad  hearts.  Just  the 
same  pig,  just  the  same  dog.  All  the  time  kill.  All  the 
time  kill.  Bime  by  everybody  kill.  You  see." 

The  old  steward,  at  work  in  his  pantry,  grinned  at  me 
when  I  mentioned  the  matter. 

"They  make  fool  with  me  I  fix  'em,"  he  said  vindic 
tively.  "Mebbe  they  kill  me,  all  right;  but  I  kill  some, 
too." 

He  threw  back  his  coat,  and  I  saw,  strapped  to  the  left 
side  of  his  body,  in  a  canvas  sheath,  so  that  the  handle  was 
ready  to  hand,  a  meat  knife  of  the  heavy  sort  that  butchers 
hack  with.  He  drew  it  forth — it  was  fully  two  feet  long — 
and,  to  demonstrate  its  razor-edge,  sliced  a  sheet  of  news 
paper  into  many  ribbons. 

277 


Of  r8         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

''Huh!"  he  laughed  sardonically.  "I  am  Chink,  mon 
key,  damn  fool,  eh? — no  good,  eh?  all  rotten  damn  to  hell. 
I  fix  'em,  they  make  fool  with  me." 

And  yet  there  is  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  foul  play. 
Nobody  knows  what  happened  to  the  carpenter.  There 
are  no  clews,  no  traces.  The  night  was  calm  and  snowy. 
No  seas  broke  on  board.  Without  doubt,  the  clumsy,  big- 
footed,  over-grown  giant  of  a  boy  is  overside  and  dead. 
The  question  is:  did  he  go  over  of  his  own  accord,  or  was 
he  put  over? 

At  eight  o'clock,  Mr.  Pike  proceeded  to  interrogate  the 
watches.  He  stood  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  in  the  high 
place,  leaning  on  the  rail  and  gazing  down  at  the  crew 
assembled  on  the  main  deck  beneath  him. 

Man  after  man  he  questioned,  and  from  each  man  came 
the  one  story.  They  knew  no  more  about  it  than  did  we — 
or  so  they  averred. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  chargin'  next  that  I  hove  that  big 
lummux  overboard  with  me  own  hands,"  Mulligan  Jacobs 
snarled,  when  he  was  questioned.  "An'  mebbe  I  did, 
bein'  that  husky  an'  rampagin '-bull-like." 

The  mate's  face  grew  more  forbidding  and  sour,  but 
without  comment  he  passed  on  to  John  Hackey,  the  San 
Francisco  hoodlum. 

It  was  an  unforgettable  scene.  The  mate  in  the  high 
place,  the  men,  sullen  and  irresponsive,  grouped  beneath. 
A  gentle  snow  drifted  straight  down  through  the  windless 
air,  while  the  Elsinore,  with  hollow  thunder  from  her  sails, 
rolled  down  on  the  quiet  swells  so  that  the  ocean  lapped 
the  mouths  of  her  scuppers  with  long-drawn,  shuddering 
sucks  and  sobs.  And  all  the  men  swayed  in  unison  to  the 
rolls,  their  hands  in  mittens,  their  feet  in  sack-wrapped 
sea-boots,  their  faces  worn  and  sick.  And  the  three  dream 
ers  with  the  topaz  eyes  stood  and  swayed  and  dreamed 
together,  incurious  of  setting  and  situation. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         2,i 

And  then  it  came — the  hint  of  easterly  air.  The  mate 
noted  it  first.  I  saw  him  start  and  turn  his  cheek  to  the 
almost  imperceptible  draft.  Then  I  felt  it.  A  minute 
longer  he  waited,  until  assured,  when,  the  dead  carpenter 
forgotten,  he  burst  out  with  orders  to  the  wheel  and  the 
crew.  And  the  men  jumped,  though  in  their  weakness  the 
climb  aloft  was  slow  and  toilsome;  and  when  the  gaskets 
were  off  the  topgallant-sails  and  the  men  on  deck  were 
hoisting  yards  and  sheeting  home,  those  aloft  were  loosing 
the  royals. 

While  this  work  went  on,  and  while  the  yards  were  being 
braced,  the  Elsinore,  her  bow  pointing  to  the  west,  began 
moving  through  the  water  before  the  first  fair  wind  in  a 
month  and  a  half. 

Slowly  that  light  air  fanned  to  a  gentle  breeze,  while 
all  the  time  the  snow  fell  steadily.  The  barometer,  down 
to  28:80,  continued  to  fall,  and  the  breeze  continued  to 
grow  upon  itself.  Tom  Spink,  passing  by  me  on  the  poop 
to  lend  a  hand  at  the  final  finicky  trimming  of  the  mizzen- 
yards,  gave  me  a  triumphant  look.  Superstition  was  vin 
dicated.  Events  had  proved  him  right.  Fair  wind  had 
come  with  the  going  of  the  carpenter,  which  said  warlock 
had  incontestably  taken  with  him  overside  his  bag  of  wind- 
tricks. 

Mr.  Pike  strode  up  and  down  the  poop,  rubbing  his 
hands,  which  he  was  too  disdainfully  happy  to  mitten, 
chuckling  and  grinning  to  himself,  glancing  at  the  draw 
of  every  sail,  stealing  adoring  looks  astern  into  the  gray  of 
snow  out  of  which  blew  the  favoring  wind.  He  even 
paused  beside  me  to  gossip  for  a  moment  about  the  French 
restaurants  of  San  Francisco  and  how,  therein,  the  delecta 
ble  California  fashion  of  cooking  wild  duck  obtained. 

"Throw  'em  through  the  fire,"  he  chanted.  "That's 
the  way — throw  'em  through  the  fire — a  hot  oven,  sixteen 


_jO         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

P 

minutes — I  take  mine  fourteen,  to  the  second — an'  squeeze 
the  carcasses." 

By  midday  the  snow  had  ceased  and  we  were  bowling 
along  before  a  stiff  breeze.  At  three  in  the  afternoon  we 
were  running  before  a  growing  gale.  It  was  across  a  mad 
ocean  we  tore,  for  the  mounting  sea  that  made  from  east 
ward  bucked  into  the  West  "Wind  Drift  and  battled  and 
battered  down  the  huge  southwesterly  swell.  And  the  big 
grinning  dolt  of  a  Finnish  carpenter,  already  food  for  fish 
and  bird,  was  astern  there  somewhere  in  the  freezing  rack 
and  drive. 

Make  westing !  We  ripped  it  off  across  these  narrowing 
degrees  of  longitude  at  the  southern  tip  of  the  planet, 
where  one  mile  counts  for  two.  And  Mr.  Pike,  staring  at 
his  bending  topgallant-yards,  swore  that  they  could  carry 
away  for  all  he  cared  ere  he  eased  an  inch  of  canvas.  More 
he  did.  He  set  the  huge  crojack,  biggest  of  all  sails,  and 
challenged  God  or  Satan  to  start  a  seam  of  it  or  all  its 
seams. 

He  simply  could  not  go  below.  In  such  auspicious  occa 
sion  all  watches  were  his,  and  he  strode  the  poop  perpetu 
ally  with  all  age-lag  banished  from  his  legs.  Margaret 
and  I  were  with  him  in  the  chart-room  when  he  hurrahed 
the  barometer,  down  to  28:55  and  falling.  And  we  were 
near  him,  on  the  poop,  when  he  drove  by  an  east-bound 
lime-juicer,  hove  to  under  upper-topsails.  We  were  a  bis 
cuit-toss  away,  and  he  sprang  upon  the  rail  at  the  jigger- 
shrouds  and  danced  a  war-dance  and  waved  his  free  arm, 
and  yelled  his  scorn  and  joy  at  their  discomfiture  to  the 
several  oilskinned  figures  on  the  stranger  vessel's  poop. 

Through  the  pitch-black  night  we  continued  to  drive. 
The  crew  was  sadly  frightened,  and  I  sought  in  vain,  in 
the  two  dog-watches,  for  Tom  Spink,  to  ask  him  if  he 
thought  the  carpenter,  astern,  had  opened  wide  the  bag- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         281 

mouth  and  loosed  all  his  tricks.  For  the  first  time  I  saw 
the  steward  apprehensive. 

''Too  much,"  he  told  me,  with  ominous  rolling  head. 
"Too  much  sail,  rotten  bad  damn  all  to  hell.  Bime  by, 
pretty  quick,  all  finish.  You  see." 

"They  talk  about  running  the  easting  down,"  Mr.  Pike 
chortled  to  me,  as  we  clung  to  the  poop-rail  to  keep  from 
fetching  away  and  breaking  ribs  and  necks.  "Well,  this 
is  running  your  westing  down  if  anybody  should  ride  up 
in  a  go-devil  and  ask  you." 

It  was  a  wretched,  glorious  night.  Sleep  was  impossi 
ble — for  me,  at  any  rate.  Nor  was  there  even  the  comfort 
of  warmth.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  draught 
of  the  big  cabin  stove,  due  to  our  wild  running,  I  fancy, 
and  the  steward  was  compelled  to  let  the  fire  go  out.  So 
we  are  getting  a  taste  of  the  hardship  of  the  forecastle, 
though  in  our  case  everything  is  dry  instead  of  soggy  or 
afloat.  The  kerosene  stoves  burned  in  our  staterooms,  but 
so  smelly  was  mine  that  I  preferred  the  cold. 

To  sail  on  one's  nerve  in  an  over-canvased  harbor  cat- 
boat  is  all  the  excitement  any  glutton  can  desire.  But  to 
sail,  in  the  same  fashion,  in  a  big  ship  off  the  Horn,  is 
incredible  and  terrible.  The  Great  West  Wind  Drift, 
setting  squarely  into  the  teeth  of  the  easterly  gale,  kicked 
up  a  tideway  sea  that  was  monstrous.  Two  men  toiled  at 
the  wheel,  relieving  in  pairs  every  half  hour,  and  in  the  face 
of  the  cold  they  streamed  with  sweat  long  ere  their  half- 
hour  shift  was  up. 

Mr.  Pike  is  of  the  elder  race  of  men.  His  endurance  is 
prodigious.  Watch  and  watch,  and  all  watches,  he  held 
the  poop. 

"I  never  dreamed  of  it,"  he  told  me,  at  midnight,  as 
the  great  gusts  tore  by  and  as  we  listened  for  our  lighter 
spars  to  smash  aloft  and  crash  upon  the  deck.  "I  thought 


282         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

my  last  whirling  sailing  was  past.  And  here  we  are !  Here 
we  are! 

' '  Lord !  Lord !  I  sailed  third  mate  in  the  little  Vampire 
before  you  were  born.  Fifty-six  men  before  the  mast,  and 
the  last  Jack  of  'em  an  able  seaman.  And  there  were  eight 
boys,  an'  bosuns  that  was  bosuns,  an'  sailmakers  an'  car 
penters  an'  stewards  an'  passengers  to  jam  the  decks.  An' 
three  driving  mates  of  us,  an'  Captain  Brown,  the  Little 
Wonder.  He  didn't  weigh  a  hundredweight,  an'  he  drove 
us — he  drove  us,  three  drivin '  mates  that  learned  from  him 
what  drivin'  was. 

"It  was  knock  down  and  drag  out  from  the  start.  The 
first  hour  of  puttin'  to  the  men  fair  perished  our  knuckles. 
I've  got  the  smashed  joints  yet  to  show.  Every  sea 'chest 
broke  open,  every  sea-bag  turned  out,  and  whiskey  bottles, 
knuckle-dusters,  slung-shots,  bowie-knives,  an '  guns  chucked 
overside  by  the  armful.  An'  when  we  chose  the  watches, 
each  man  of  fifty-six  of  'em  laid  his  knife  on  the  main- 
hatch  an'  the  carpenter  broke  the  point  square  off. — Yes, 
an'  the  little  Vampire  only  eight  hundred  tons.  The  Elsi- 
nore  could  carry  her  on  her  deck.  But  she  was  ship,  all 
ship,  an '  them  was  men 's  days. ' ' 

Margaret,  save  for  inability  to  sleep,  did  not  mind  the 
driving,  although  Mr.  Mellaire,  on  the  other  hand,  ad 
mitted  apprehension. 

"He's  got  my  goat,"  he  confided  to  me.  "It  isn't  right 
to  drive  a  cargo-carrier  this  way.  This  isn't  a  ballasted 
yacht.  It's  a  coal-hulk.  I  know  what  driving  was,  but  it 
was  in  ships  made  to  drive.  Our  iron-work  aloft  won't 
stand  it.  Mr.  Pathurst,  I  tell  you  frankly  that  it  is  crim 
inal,  it  is  sheer  murder,  to  run  the  Elsinore  with  that 
crojack  on  her.  You  can  see  yourself,  sir.  It's  an  after- 
sail.  All  its  tendency  is  to  throw  her  stern  off  and  her 
bow  up  to  it.  And  if  it  ever  happens,  sir,  if  she  ever  gets 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         283 

away    from    the   wheel    for   two    seconds    and    broaches 
to  .  .  ." 

"Then  what?"  I  asked,  or,  rather,  shouted;  for  all  con 
versation  had  to  be  shouted  close  to  ear  in  that  blast  of 
gale. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  all  of  him  was  eloquent 
with  the  unuttered,  unmistakable  word — "finish." 

At  eight  this  morning,  Margaret  and  I  struggled  up  to 
the  poop.  And  there  was  that  indomitable,  iron  old  man. 
He  had  never  left  the  deck  all  night.  His  eyes  were  bright 
and  he  appeared  in  the  pink  of  well  being.  He  rubbed  his 
hands  and  chuckled  greeting  to  us,  and  took  up  his  remi 
niscences. 

"In  '51,  on  this  same  stretch,  Miss  West,  the  Flying 
Cloud,  in  twenty-four  hours,  logged  three  hundred  and 
seventy-four  miles  under  her  topgallant-sails.  That  was 
sailing.  She  broke  the  record,  that  day,  for  sail  an' 
steam. ' ' 

"And  what  are  we  averaging,  Mr.  Pike?"  Margaret 
queried,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  main  deck,  where 
continually  one  rail  and  then  the  other  dipped  under  the 
ocean  and  filled  across  from  rail  to  rail  only  to  spill  out 
and  take  in  on  the  next  roll. 

( l  Thirteen  for  a  fair  average  since  five  o  'clock  yesterday 
afternoon,"  he  exulted.  "In  the  squalls  she  makes  all  of 
sixteen,  which  is  going  some  for  the  Elsinore." 

"I'd  take  the  crojack  off  if  I  had  charge,"  Margaret 
criticized. 

"So  would  I,  so  would  I,  Miss  West,"  he  replied,  "if 
we  hadn't  been  six  weeks  already  off  the  Horn." 

She  ran  her  eyes  aloft,  spar  by  spar,  past  the  spars  of 
hollow  steel  to  the  wooden  royals,  which  bent  in  the  gusts 
like  bows  in  some  invisible  archer's  hands. 

"They're  remarkably  good  sticks  of  timber,"  was  her 
comment. 


284         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

1  'Well  may  you  say  it,  Miss  West,"  lie  agreed.  "I'd 
never  a-believed  they'd  a-stood  it  myself.  But  just  look 
at  'em !  Just  look  at  'em ! ' ' 

There  was  no  breakfast  for  the  men.  Three  times  the 
galley  had  been  washed  out,  and  the  men,  in  the  forecastle 
awash,  contented  themselves  with  hard  tack  and  cold  salt 
horse.  Aft,  with  us,  the  steward  scalded  himself  twice  ere 
he  succeeded  in  making  coffee  over  a  kerosene-burner. 

At  noon,  we  picked  up  a  ship  ahead,  a  lime- juicer,  travel 
ing  in  the  same  direction,  under  lower  topsails  and  one 
upper  topsail.  The  only  one  of  her  courses  set  was  the 
foresail. 

"The  way  that  skipper's  carryin'  on  is  shocking,"  Mr. 
Pike  sneered.  "He  should  be  more  cautious,  and  remem 
ber  God,  the  owners,  the  underwriters,  and  the  Board  of 
Trade." 

Such  was  our  speed  that  in  almost  no  time  we  were  up 
with  the  stranger  vessel  and  passing  her.  Mr.  Pike  was 
like  a  boy  just  loosed  from  school.  He  altered  our  course 
so  that  we  passed  her  a  hundred  yards  away.  She  was  a 
gallant  sight,  but,  such  was  our  speed,  she  appeared  stand 
ing  still.  Mr.  Pike  jumped  upon  the  rail  and  insulted  those 
on  her  poop  by  extending  a  rope's  end  in  invitation  to  take 
a  tow. 

Margaret  shook  her  head  privily  to  me  as  she  gazed  at 
our  bending  royal-yards,  but  was  caught  in  the  act  by 
Mr.  Pike,  who  cried  out: 

' '  What  kites  she  won 't  carry  she  can  drag ! ' ' 

An  hour  later,  I  caught  Tom  Spink,  just  relieved  from 
his  shift  at  the  wheel  and  weak  from  exhaustion. 

"What  do  you  think  now  of  the  carpenter  and  his  bag 
of  tricks  ? "  I  queried. 

"Lord  lumme,  it  should  a-been  the  mate,  sir,"  was  his 
reply. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         285 

By  five  in  the  afternoon  we  had  logged  314  miles  since 
five  the  previous  day,  which  was  two  over  an  average  of 
thirteen  knots  for  twenty-four  consecutive  hours. 

"Now  take  Captain  Brown  of  the  little  Vampire,"  Mr. 
Pike  grinned  to  me,  for  our  sailing  made  him  good-natured. 
' '  He  never  would  take  in  until  the  kites  an '  .stu  'n  'sails  was 
about  his  ears.  An'  when  she  was  blowin'  her  worst  an7 
we  was  half -fairly  shortened  down,  he'd  turn  in  for  a 
snooze,  an '  say  to  us,  '  Call  me  if  she  moderates. '  Yes,  and 
I'll  never  forget  the  night  when  I  called  him  an'  told  him 
that  everything  on  top  the  houses  had  gone  adrift,  an' 
that  two  of  the  boats  had  been  swept  aft  and  was  kindling 
wood  against  the  break  of  the  cabin.  'Very  well,  Mr. 
Pike,'  he  says,  battin'  his  eyes  and  turnin'  over  to  go  to 
sleep  again.  'Very  well,  Mr.  Pike,'  says  he.  'Watch  her. 
An'  Mr.  Pike.  .  .  .'  'Yes,  sir,'  says  I.  'Give  me  a  call, 
Mr.  Pike,  when  the  windlass  shows  signs  of  comin'  aft.' 
That's  what  he  said,  his  very  words,  an'  the  next  moment, 
damme,  he  was  snorin'." 


It  is  now  midnight,  and,  cunningly  wedged  into  my  bunk, 
unable  to  sleep,  I  am  writing  these  lines  with  flying  dabs 
of  pencil  at  my  pad.  And  no  more  shall  I  write,  I  swear, 
until  this  gale  is  blown  out,  or  we  are  blown  to  Kingdom 
Come. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

THE  days  have  passed  and  I  have  broken  my  resolve ;  for 
here  I  am  again  writing  while  the  Elsinore  surges  along 
across  a  magnificent,  smoky,  dusty  sea.  But  I  have  two 
reasons  for  breaking  my  word.  First,  and  minor,  we  had  a 
real  dawn  this  morning.  The  gray  of  the  sea  showed  a 
streaky  blue,  and  the  cloud-masses  were  actually  pink- 
tipped  by  a  really  and  truly  sun. 

Second,  and  major,  we  are  around  the  Horn!  We  are 
north  of  50  in  the  Pacific,  in  Longitude  80 :49,  with  Cape 
Pillar  and  the  Straits  of  Magellan  already  south  of  east 
from  us,  and  we  are  heading  north-northwest.  We  are 
around  the  Horn!  The  profound  significance  of  this  can 
be  appreciated  only  by  one  who  has  wind- jammed  around 
from  east  to  west.  Blow  high,  blow  low,  nothing  can 
happen  to  thwart  us.  No  ship  north  of  50  was  ever  blown 
back.  From  now  on  it  is  plain  sailing,  and  Seattle  sud 
denly  seems  quite  near. 

All  the  ship's  company,  with  the  exception  of  Margaret, 
is  better  spirited.  She  is  quiet,  and  a  little  drawn,  though 
she  is  anything  but  prone  to  the  wastage  of  grief.  In  her 
robust,  vital  philosophy,  God's  always  in  heaven.  I  may 
describe  her  as  being  merely  subdued,  and  gentle,  and 
tender.  And  she  is  very  wistful  to  receive  gentle  consider 
ation  and  tenderness  from  me.  She  is,  after  all,  the  genu 
ine  woman.  She  wants  the  strength  that  man  has  to  give, 
and  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  ten  times  a  stronger  man 
than  I  was  when  the  voyage  began,  because  I  am  a  thou 
sand  times  a  more  human  man  since  I  told  the  books  to  go 
hang  and  began  to  revel  in  the  human  maleness  of  the 
man  that  loves  a  woman  and  is  loved. 

2,6 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         287 

Returning  to  the  ship's  company.  The  rounding  of  the 
Horn,  the  better  weather  that  is  continually  growing  bet 
ter,  the  easement  of  hardship  and  toil  and  danger,  with 
the  promise  of  the  tropics  and  of  the  balmy  Southeast 
Trades  before  them — all  these  factors  contribute  to  pick 
up  our  men  again.  The  temperature  has  already  so  mod 
erated  that  the  men  are  beginning  to  shed  their  surplusage 
of  clothing,  and  they  no  longer  wrap  sacking  about  their 
sea-boots.  Last  evening,  in  the  second  dog-watch,  I  heard 
a  man  actually  singing. 

The  steward  has  discarded  the  huge  hacking  knife  and 
relaxed  to  the  extent  of  engaging  in  an  occasional  sober 
rornp  with  Possum.  Wada's  face  is  no  longer  solemnly 
long,  and  Louis'  Oxford  accent  is  more  mellifluous  than 
ever.  Mulligan  Jacobs  and  Andy  Fay  are  the  same  veno 
mous  scorpions  they  have  always  been.  The  three  gang 
sters,  with  the  clique  they  lead,  have  again  asserted  their 
tyranny  and  thrashed  all  the  weaklings  and  feeblings  in 
the  forecastle.  Charles  Davis  resolutely  refuses  to  die, 
though  how  he  survived  that  wet  and  freezing  room  of 
iron  through  all  the  weeks  off  the  Horn  has  elicited  wonder 
even  from  Mr.  Pike,  who  has  a  most  accurate  knowledge  of 
what  men  can  stand  and  what  they  cannot  stand. 

How  Nietzsche,  with  his  eternal  slogan  of  "Be  hard! 
Be  hard!"  would  have  delighted  in  Mr.  Pike! 

And — oh! — Larry  has  had  a  tooth  removed.  For  some 
days  distressed  with  a  jumping  toothache,  he  came  aft  to 
the  mate  for  relief.  Mr.  Pike  refused  to  "monkey"  with 
the  "f angled"  forceps  in  the  medicine  chest.  He  used  a 
ten-penny  nail  and  a  hammer  in  the  good  old  way  to  which 
he  was  brought  up.  I  vouch  for  this.  I  saw  it  done.  One 
blow  of  the  hammer  and  the  tooth  was  out,  while  Larry 
was  jumping  around  holding  his  jaw.  It  is  a  wonder  it 
wasn't  fractured.  But  Mr.  Pike  avers  he  has  removed 
hundreds  of  teeth  by  this  method  and  never  known  a  frac- 


288         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

tured  jaw.  Also,  he  avers  he  once  sailed  with  a  skipper 
who  shaved  every  Sunday  morning  and  never  touched  a 
razor,  nor  any  cutting-edge,  to  his  face.  What  he  used, 
according  to  Mr.  Pike,  was  a  lighted  candle  and  a  damp 
towel. — Another  candidate  for  Nietzsche's  immortals  who 
are  hard ! 

As  for  Mr.  Pike  himself,  he  is  the  highest-spirited,  best- 
conditioned  man  on  board.  The  driving  to  which  he  sub 
jected  the  Elsinore  was  meat  and  drink.  He  still  rubs  his 
hands  and  chuckles  over  the  memory  of  it. 

* '  Huh ! "  he  said  to  me,  in  reference  to  the  crew,  ' '  I  gave 
'em  a  taste  of  real  old-fashioned  sailing.  They'll  never 
forget  this  hooker — at  least  them  that  don't  take  a  sack  of 
coal  overside  before  we  reach  port." 

"You  mean  you  think  we'll  have  more  sea-burials?"  I 
inquired. 

He  turned  squarely  upon  me,  and  squarely  looked  me  in 
the  eyes  for  the  matter  of  five  long  seconds. 

"Huh!"  he  replied,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel.  "Hell 
ain't  begun  to  pop  on  this  hooker." 

He  still  stands  his  mate's  watch,  alternating  with  Mr. 
Mellaire,  for  he  is  firm  in  his  conviction  that  there  is  no 
man  for'ard  fit  to  stand  a  second  mate's  watch.  Also,  he 
has  kept  his  old  quarters.  Perhaps  it  is  out  of  delicacy 
for  Margaret;  for  I  have  learned  that  it  is  the  invariable 
custom  for  the  mate  to  occupy  the  captain 's  quarters  when 
the  latter  dies.  So  Mr.  Mellaire  still  eats  by  himself  in 
the  big  after-room,  as  he  has  done  since  the  loss  of  the  car 
penter,  and  bunks  as  before  in  the  'midship  house  with 
Nancy. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

MR.  MELLAIRE  was  right.  The  men  would  not  accept  the 
driving  when  the  Elsinore  won  to  easier  latitudes.  Mr. 
Pike  was  right.  Hell  had  not  begun  to  pop.  But  it  has 
popped  now,  and  men  are  overboard  without  even  the  kind 
liness  of  a  sack  of  coal  at  their  feet.  And  yet  the  men, 
though  ripe  for  it,  did  not  precipitate  the  trouble.  It  was 
Mr.  Mellaire.  Or,  rather,  it  was  Ditman  Olansen,  the 
crank-eyed  Norwegian.  Perhaps  it  was  Possum.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  an  accident,  in  which  the  several  named,  in 
cluding  Possum,  played  their  respective  parts. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning.  Two  weeks  have  elapsed 
since  we  crossed  50,  and  we  are  now  in  37 — the  same  lati 
tude  as  San  Francisco,  or,  to  be  correct,  we  are  as  far 
south  of  the  equator  as  San  Francisco  is  north  of  it.  The 
trouble  was  precipitated  yesterday  morning  shortly  after 
nine  o'clock,  and  Possum  started  the  chain  of  events  that 
culminated  in  downright  mutiny.  It  was  Mr.  Mellaire 's 
watch,  and  he  was  standing  on  the  bridge,  directly  under 
the  mizzen-top,  giving  orders  to  Sundry  Buyers,  who,  with 
Arthur  Deacon  and  the  Maltese  Cockney,  was  doing  rig 
ging  work  aloft. 

Get  the  picture  and  the  situation  in  all  its  ridiculousness. 
Mr.  Pike,  thermometer  in  hand,  was  coming  back  along 
the  bridge  from  taking  the  temperature  of  the  coal  in  the 
for'ard  hold.  Ditman  Olansen  was  just  swinging  into  the 
mizzen-top  as  he  went  up  with  several  turns  of  rope  over 
one  shoulder.  Also,  in  some  way,  to  the  end  of  this  rope 
was  fastened  a  sizable  block  that  might  have  weighed  ten 
pounds.  Possum,  running  free,  was  fooling  around  the 

289 


290         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

chicken  coop  on  top  the  'midship  house.  And  the  chickens, 
featherless  but  indomitable,  were  enjoying  the  milder 
weather  as  they  pecked  at  the  grain  and  grits  which  the 
steward  had  just  placed  in  their  feeding  trough.  The 
tarpaulin  that  covered  their  pen  had  been  off  for  several 
days. 

Now  observe.  I  am  at  the  break  of  the  poop,  leaning 
on  the  rail  and  watching  Ditman  Olansen  swing  into  the 
top  with  his  cumbersome  burden.  Mr.  Pike,  proceeding 
aft,  has  just  passed  Mr.  Mellaire.  Possum,  who,  on  account 
of  the  Horn  weather  and  the  tarpaulin,  has  not  seen  the 
chickens  for  many  weeks,  is  getting  reacquainted  and  is 
investigating  them  with  that  keen  nose  of  his.  And  a  hen's 
beak,  equally  though  differently  keen,  impacts  on  Possum's 
nose,  which  is  as  sensitive  as  it  is  keen. 

I  may  well  say,  now  that  I  think  it  over,  that  it  was  this 
particular  hen  that  started  the  mutiny.  The  men,  well- 
driven  by  Mr.  Pike,  were  ripe  for  an  explosion,  and  Possum 
and  the  hen  laid  the  train. 

Possum  fell  away  backward  from  the  coop  and  loosed 
a  wild  cry  of  pain  and  indignation.  This  attracted  Ditman 
Olansen 's  attention.  He  paused  and  craned  his  neck  out 
in  order  to  see,  and,  in  this  moment  of  carelessness,  the 
block  he  was  carrying  fetched  away  from  him  along  with 
the  several  turns  of  rope  around  his  shoulder.  Both  the 
mates  sprang  away  to  get  out  from  under.  The  rope,  fast 
to  the  block  and  following  it,  lashed  about  like  a  black- 
snake,  and,  though  the  block  fell  clear  of  Mr.  Mellaire,  the 
bight  of  the  rope  snatched  off  his  cap. 

Mr.  Pike  had  already  started  an  oath  aloft  when  his  eyes 
caught  sight  of  the  terrible  cleft  in  Mr.  Mellaire 's  head. 
There  it  was,  for  all  the  world  to  read,  and  Mr.  Pike's  and 
mine  were  the  only  eyes  that  could  read  it.  The  sparse 
hair  upon  the  second  mate's  crown  served  not  at  all  to 
hide  the  cleft.  It  began  out  of  sight  in  the  thicker  hair 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         291 

% 

above  the  ears,  and  was  exposed  nakedly  across  the  whole 
dome  of  head. 

The  stream  of  abuse  for  Ditman  Olansen  was  choked  in 
Mr.  Pike's  thioat.  All  he  was  capable  of  for  the  moment 
was  to  stare,  petrified,  at  that  enormous  fissure  flanked  at 
either  end  with  a  thatch  of  grizzled  hair.  He  was  in  a 
dream,  a  trance,  his  great  hands  knotting  and  clenching 
unconsciously  as  he  stared  at  the  mark  unmistakable  by 
which  he  had  said  that  he  would  some  day  identify  the 
murderer  of  Captain  Somers.  And  in  that  moment  I  re 
membered  having  heard  him  declare  that  some  day  he 
would  stick  his  fingers  in  that  mark. 

Still  as  in  a  dream,  moving  slowly,  right  hand  out 
stretched  like  a  talon,  with  the  fingers  drawn  downward, 
he  advanced  on  the  second  mate  with  the  evident  intention 
of  thrusting  his  fingers  into  that  cleft  and  of  clawing  and 
tearing  at  the  brain-life  beneath  that  pulsed  under  the  thin 
film  of  skin. 

The  second  mate  backed  away  along  the  bridge,  and  Mr. 
Pike  seemed  partially  to  come  to  himself.  His  outstretched 
arm  dropped  to  his  side,  and  he  paused. 

"I  know  you,"  he  said,  in  a  strange,  shaky  voice,  blended 
of  age  and  passion.  "Eighteen  years  ago  you  were  dis 
masted  off  the  Plate  in  the  Cyrus  Thompson.  She  found 
ered,  after  you  were  on  your  beam  ends  and  lost  your 
sticks.  You  were  in  the  only  boat  that  was  saved.  Eleven 
years  ago,  on  the  Jason  Harrison,  in  San  Francisco,  Cap 
tain  Somers  was  beaten  to  death  by  his  second  mate.  This 
second  mate  was  a  survivor  of  the  Cyrus  Thompson.  This 
second  mate  'd  had  his  skull  split  by  a  crazy  sea-cook.  Your 
skull  is  split.  This  second  mate's  name  was  Sidney  Wal- 
tham.  And  if  you  ain't  Sidney  Waltham  ..." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Mellaire,  or,  rather,  Sidney  Waltham, 
despite  his  fifty  years,  did  what  only  a  sailor  could  do.  He 
went  over  the  bridge-rail  sidewise,  caught  the  running 


292         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

gear  up-and-down  the  mizzen-mast,  and  landed  lightly  on 
his  feet  on  top  of  Number  Three  hatch.  Nor  did  he  stop 
there.  He  ran  across  the  hatch  and  dived  through  the 
doorway  of  his  room  in  the  'midship  house. 

Such  must  have  been  Mr.  Pike's  profunaity  of  passion, 
that  he  paused  like  a  somnambulist,  actually  rubbed  his 
eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  awaken. 

But  the  second  mate  had  not  run  to  his  room  for  refuge. 
The  next  moment  he  emerged,  a  thirty-two  Smith  &  Wesson 
in  his  hand,  and  the  instant  he  emerged  he  began  shooting. 

Mr.  Pike  was  wholly  himself  again,  and  I  saw  him  per 
ceptibly  pause  and  decide  between  the  two  impulses  that 
tore  at  him.  One  was  to  leap  over  the  bridge-rail  and 
down  at  the  man  who  shot  at  him;  the  other  was  to  re 
treat.  He  retreated.  And  as  he  bounded  aft  along  the 
narrow  bridge  the  mutiny  began.  Arthur  Deacon,  from 
the  mizzen-top,  leaned  out  and  hurled  a  steel  marlin-spike 
at  the  fleeing  mate.  The  thing  flashed  in  the  sunlight  as 
it  hurtled  down.  It  missed  Mr.  Pike  by  twenty  feet  and 
nearly  impaled  Possum,  who,  afraid  of  firearms,  was  wildly 
rushing  and  ki-yi-ing  aft.  It  so  happened  that  the  sharp 
point  of  the  marlin-spike  struck  the  wooden  floor  of  the 
bridge,  and  it  penetrated  the  planking  with  such  force 
that  after  it  had  fetched  to  a  standstill  it  vibrated  violently 
for  long  seconds. 

I  confess  that  I  failed  to  observe  a  tithe  of  what  occurred 
during  the  next  several  minutes.  Piece  together  as  I  will, 
after  the  event,  I  know  that  I  missed  much  of  what  took 
place.  I  know  that  the  men  aloft  in  the  mizzen  descended 
to  the  deck,  but  I  never  saw  them  descend.  I  know  that 
the  second  mate  emptied  the  chambers  of  his  revolver,  but 
I  did  not  hear  all  the  shots.  I  know  that  Lars  Jacobsen 
left  the  wheel  and  on  his  broken  leg,  rebroken  and  not  yet 
really  mended,  limped  and  scuttled  across  the  poop,  down 
the  ladder,  and  gained  for'ard.  I  know  he  must  have 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         293 

limped  and  scuttled  on  that  bad  leg  of  his;  I  know  that 
I  must  have  seen  him;  and  yet  I  swear  that  I  have  no 
impression  of  seeing  him. 

I  do  know  that  I  heard  the  rush  of  feet  of  men  from 
for'ard  along  the  main  deck.  And  I  do  know  that  I  saw 
Mr.  Pike  take  shelter  behind  the  steel  jiggermast.  Also, 
as  the  second  mate  maneuvered  to  port  on  top  of  Number 
Three  hatch  for  his  last  shot,  I  know  that  I  saw  Mr.  Pike 
duck  around  the  corner  of  the  chart-house  to  starboard 
and  get  away  aft  and  below  by  way  of  the  booby  hatch. 
And  I  did  hear  that  last  futile  shot,  and  the  bullet  also 
as  it  ricochetted  from  the  corner  of  the  steel-walled  chart- 
house. 

As  for  myself,  I  did  not  move.  I  was  too  interested  in 
seeing.  It  may  have  been  due  to  lack  of  presence  of  mind, 
or  to  lack  of  habituation  to  an  active  part  in  scenes  of 
quick  action;  but  at  any  rate  I  merely  retained  my  posi 
tion  at  the  break  of  the  poop  and  looked  on.  I  was  the 
only  person  on  the  poop  when  the  mutineers,  led  by  the 
second  mate  and  the  gangsters,  rushed  it.  I  saw  them 
swarm  up  the.  ladder,  and  it  never  entered  my  head  to 
attempt  to  oppose  them.  Which  was  just  as  well,  for  I 
would  have  been  killed  for  my  pains,  and  I  could  never 
have  stopped  them. 

I  was  alone  on  the  poop,  and  the  men  were  quite  per 
plexed  to  find  no  enemy  in  sight.  As  Bert  Rhine  went 
past,  he  half  fetched  up  in  his  stride,  as  if  to  knife  me 
with  the  sheath  knife,  sharp-pointed,  which  he  carried  in 
his  right  hand ;  then,  and  I  know  I  correctly  measured  the 
drift  of  his  judgment,  he  unflatteringly  dismissed  me  as 
unimportant  and  ran  on. 

Right  here  I  was  impressed  by  the  lack  of  clear-thinking 
on  any  of  their  parts.  So  spontaneously  had  the  ship's 
company  exploded  into  mutiny  that  it  was  dazed  and  con 
fused  evpn  vvhile  it  acted.  For  instance,  in  the  months 


294         THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

since  we  left  Baltimore  there  had  never  been  a  moment, 
day  or  iiight,  even  when  preventer  tackles  were  rigged,  that 
a  man  had  not  stood  at  the  wheel.  So  habituated  were  they 
to  this  that  they  were  shocked  into  consternation  at  sight 
of  the  deserted  wheel.  They  paused  for  an  instant  to  stare 
at  it.  Then  Bert  Rhine,  with  a  quick  word  and  gesture, 
sent  the  Italian,  Guido  Bombini,  around  the  rear  of  the 
half-wheel  nouse.  The  fact  that  he  completed  the  circuit 
was  proof  that  nobody  was  there. 

Again,  in  the  swift  rush  of  events,  I  must  confess  that  I 
saw  but  little.  I  was  aware  that  more  of  the  men  were 
climbing  up  the  ladder  and  gaining  the  poop,  but  I  had 
no  eyes  for  them.  I  was  watching  that  sanguinary  group 
aft  near  the  wheel  and  noting  the  most  important  thing, 
namely,  that  it  was  Bert  Ehine,  the  gangster,  and  not  the 
second  mate,  who  gave  orders  and  was  obeyed. 

He  motioned  to  the  Jew,  Isaac  Chantz,  who  had  been 
wounded  earlier  in  the  voyage  by  0 'Sullivan,  and  Chantz 
led  the  way  to  the  starboard  chart-house  door.  While  this 
Was  going  on,  all  in  flashing  fractions  of  seconds,  Bert 
Rhine  was  cautiously  inspecting  the  lazarette  through  the 
open  booby  hatch. 

Isaac  Chantz  jerked  open  the  chart-house  door,  which 
swung  outward.  Things  did  happen  so  swiftly!  As  he 
jerked  the  iron  door  open,  a  two-foot  hacking  butcher 
knife,  at  the  end  of  a  withered,  yellow  hand,  flashed  out 
and  down  on  him.  It  missed  head  and  neck,  but  caught 
him  on  top  of  the  left  shoulder. 

All  hands  recoiled  before  this,  and  the  Jew  reeled  across 
to  the  rail,  his  right  hand  clutching  at  his  wound,  and 
between  the  fingers  I  could  see  the  blood  welling  darkly. 
Bert  Rhine  abandoned  his  inspection  of  the  booby  hatch, 
and,  with  the  second  mate,  the  latter  still  carrying  his 
empty  Smith  &  Wesson,  sprang  into  the  press  about  the 
chart-house  door. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         295 

0  wise,  clever,  cautious,  old  Chinese  steward !     He  made 
no  emergence.     The  door  swung  emptily  back  and  forth 
to  the  rolling  of  the  Elsinore,  and  no  man  knew  but  what, 
just  inside,  with  that  heavy  hacking-knife  upraised,  lurked 
the  steward.    And  while  they  hesitated  and  stared  at  the 
aperture  that  alternately  closed  and  opened  with  the  swing 
ing  of  the  door,  the  booby  hatch,  situated  between  chart- 
house  and  wheel,  erupted.     It  was  Mr.  Pike,  with  his  .44 
automatic  Colt. 

There  were  shots  fired,  other  than  by  him.  I  know  I 
heard  them,  like  " red-heads"  at  an  old-time  Fourth  of 
July;  but  I  do  not  know  who  discharged  them.  All  was 
mess  and  confusion.  Many  shots  were  being  fired,  and 
through  the  uproar  I  heard  the  reiterant,  monotonous  ex 
plosions  from  the  Colt's  .44. 

1  saw  the  Italian,  Mike  Cipriani,  clutch  savagely  at  his 
abdomen  and  sink  slowly  to  the  deck.     Shorty,  the  Japa 
nese  half-caste,  clown  that  he  was,  dancing  and  grinning 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  struggle,  with  a  final  grimace  and 
hysterical  giggle  led  the  retreat  across  the  poop  and  down 
the  poop-ladder.    Never  had  I  seen  a  finer  exemplification 
of  mob  psychology.     Shorty,  the  most  unstable-minded  of 
the  individuals  who  composed  this  mob,  by  his  own  insta 
bility  precipitated  the  retreat  in  which  the  mob  joined. 
When  he  broke  before  the  steady  discharge  of  the  auto 
matic  in  the  hand  of  the  mate,  on  the  instant  the  rest  broke 
with  him.    Least-balanced,  his  balance  was  the  balance  of 
all  of  them. 

Chantz,  bleeding  prodigiously,  was  one  of  the  first  on 
Shorty's  heels.  I  saw  Nosey  Murphy  pause  long  enough 
to  throw  his  knife  at  the  mate.  The  missile  went  wide, 
with  a  metallic  clang  struck  the  brass  tip  of  one  of  the 
spokes  of  the  Elsinore' s  wheel,  and  clattered  on  the  deck. 
The  second  mate,  with  his  empty  revolver,  and  Bert  Rhine 
with  his  sheath-knife,  fled  past  me  side  by  side. 


296         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Mr.  Pike  emerged  from  the  booby  hatch  and  with  an  un- 
aimed  shot  brought  down  Bill  Quigley,  one  of  the  "brick 
layers,"  who  fell  at  my  feet.  The  last  man  off  the  poop 
was  the  Maltese  Cockney,  and  at  the  top  of  the  ladder  he 
paused  to  look  back  at  Mr.  Pike,  who,  holding  the  auto 
matic  in  both  hands,  was  taking  careful  aim.  The  Maltese 
Cockney,  disdaining  the  ladder,  leaped  through  the  air  to 
the  main  deck.  But  the  Colt's  merely  clicked.  It  was  the 
last  bullet  in  it  that  had  fetched  down  Bill  Quigley. 

And  the  poop  was  ours. 

Event  still  crowded  event  so  closely  that  I  missed  much. 
I  saw  the  steward,  belligerent  and  cautious,  his  long  knife 
poised  for  a  slash,  emerge  from  the  chart-house.  Margaret 
followed  him,  and  behind  her  came  Wada,  who  carried 
my  .22  Winchester  automatic  rifle.  As  he  told  me  after 
ward,  he  had  brought  it  up  under  instructions  from  her. 

Mr.  Pike  was  glancing  with  cool  haste  at  his  Colt's  to 
see  whether  it  was  jammed  or  empty,  when  Margaret  asked 
him  the  course. 

"By  the  wind,"  he  shouted  to  her,  as  he  bounded  for'ard. 
"Put  your  helm  hard  up  or  we'll  be  all  aback." 

Ah! — yeoman  and  henchman  of  the  race,  he  could  not 
fail  in  his  fidelity  to  the  ship  under  his  command.  The 
iron  of  all  his  years  of  iron  training  was  there  manifest. 
While  mutiny  spread  red  and  death  was  on  the  wing,  he 
could  not  forget  his  charge,  the  ship,  the  Elsinore,  the 
insensate  fabric  compounded  of  steel  and  hemp  and  woven 
cotton  that  was  to  him  glorious  with  personality. 

Margaret  waved  Wada  in  my  direction  as  she  ran  to  the 
wheel.  As  Mr.  Pike  passed  the  corner  of  the  chart-house, 
simultaneously  there  was  a  report  from  amidships  and  the 
ping  of  a  bullet  against  the  steel  wall.  I  saw  the  man  who 
fired  the  shot.  It  was  the  cowboy,  Steve  Roberts. 

As  for  the  mate,  he  ducked  in  behind  the  sheltering 
jiggermast,  and  even  as  he  ducked  his  left  hand  dipped 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         297 

into  his  side  coat-pocket,  so  that  when  he  had  gained  shelter 
it  was  coming  out  with  a  fresh  clip  of  cartridges.  The 
empty  clip  fell  to  the  deck,  the  loaded  clip  slipped  up  the 
hollow  butt,  and  he  was  good  for  eight  more  shots. 

Wada  turned  the  little  automatic  rifle  over  to  me,  where 
I  still  stood  under  the  weather  cloth  at  the  break  of  the 
poop. 

"All  ready,"  he  said.    "You  take  off  safety." 

"Get  Roberts,"  Mr.  Pike  called  to  me.  "He's  the  best 
shot  for'ard.  If  you  can't  get'm,  jolt  the  fear  of  God 
into  him  anyway." 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  a  human  target,  and  let  me  \ 
say,  here  and  now,  that  I  am  convinced  I  am  immune  to  * 
buck  fever.     There  he  was  before  me,  less  than  a  hundred 
feet  distant,  in  the  gangway  between  the  door  to  Davis 's 
room  and  the  starboard  rail,  maneuvering  for  another  shot 
at  Mr.  Pike. 

I  must  have  missed  Steve  Roberts  that  first  time,  but 
I  came  so  near  him  that  he  jumped.  The  next  instant  he 
had  located  me  and  turned  his  revolver  on  me.  But  he 
had  no  chance.  My  little  automatic  was  discharging  as 
fast  as  I  could  tickle  the  trigger  with  my  fore-finger.  The 
cowboy's  first  shot  went  wild  of  me,  because  my  bullet  ar 
rived  ere  he  got  his  swift  aim.  He  swayed  and  stumbled 
backward,  but  the  bullets — ten  of  them — poured  from  the 
muzzle  of  my  Winchester  like  water  from  a  garden  hose. 
It  was  a  stream  of  lead  I  played  upon  him.  I  shall  never 
know  how  many  times  I  hit  him,  but  I  am  confident  that 
after  he  had  begun  his  long  staggering  fall  at  least  three 
additional  bullets  entered  him  ere  he  impacted  on  the 
deck.  And  even  as  he  was  falling,  aimlessly  and  mechani 
cally,  stricken  then  with  death,  he  managed  twice  again 
to  discharge  his  weapon. 

And  after  he  struck  the  deck  he  never  moved.  I  do 
believe  he  died  in  the  air. 


298         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

As  I  held  up  my  gun  and  gazed  at  the  abruptly-deserted 
main-deck,  I  was  aware  of  Wada's  touch  on  my  arm.  I 
looked.  In  his  hand  were  a  dozen  little  .22  long,  soft- 
nosed,  smokeless  cartridges.  He  wanted  me  to  reload.  I 
threw  on  the  safety,  opened  the  magazine,  and  tilted  the 
rifle  so  that  he  could  let  the  fresh  cartridges  of  themselves 
slide  into  place. 

"Get  some  more,"  I  told  him. 

Scarcely  had  he  departed  on  the  errand,  when  Bill  Quig- 
ley,  who  lay  at  my  feet,  created  a  diversion.  I  jumped — 
yes,  and  I  freely  confess  that  I  yelled — with  startle  and 
surprise,  when  I  felt  his  paws  clutch  my  ankles  and  his 
teeth  shut  down  on  the  calf  of  my  leg. 

It  was  Mr.  Pike  to  the  rescue.  I  understand  now  the 
Western  hyperbole  of  "hitting  the  high  places."  The 
mate  did  not  seem  in  contact  with  the  deck.  My  impression 
was  that  he  soared  through  the  air  to  me,  landing  beside 
me,  and,  in  the  instant  of  landing,  kicking  out  with  one 
of  those  big  feet  of  his.  Bill  Quigley  was  kicked  clear 
away  from  me,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  flying  over 
board.  It  was  a  clean  throw.  He  never  touched  the  rail. 

Whether  Mike  Cipriani,  who,  till  then,  had  lain  in  a 
welter,  began  crawling  aft  in  quest  of  safety,  or  whether 
he  intended  harm  to  Margaret  at  the  wheel,  we  shall  never 
know ;  for  there  was  no  opportunity  given  him  to  show  his 
purpose.  As  swiftly  as  Mr.  Pike  could  cross  the  deck  with 
those  giant  bounds,  just  that  swiftly  was  the  Italian  in  the 
air  and  following  Bill  Quigley  overside. 

The  mate  missed  nothing  with  those  eagle  eyes  of  his  as 
he  returned  along  the  poop.  Nobody  was  to  be  seen  on  the 
main  deck.  Even  the  lookout  had  deserted  the  forecastle 
head,  and  the  Elsinore,  steered  by  Margaret,  slipped  a  lazy 
two  knots  through  the  quiet  sea.  Mr.  Pike  was  appre 
hensive  of  a  shot  from  ambush,  and  it  was  not  until  after 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         299 

a  scrutiny  of  several  minutes  that  he  put  his  pistol  into 
his  side  coat-pocket  and  snarled  for'ard: 

"Come  out,  you  rats!  Show  your  ugly  faces!  I  want 
to  talk  with  you ! ' ' 

Guido  Bombini,  gesticulating  peaceable  intentions  and 
evidently  thrust  out  by  Bert  Ehine,  was  the  first  to  ap 
pear.  "When  it  was  observed  that  Mr.  Pike  did  not  fire, 
the  rest  began  to  dribble  into  view.  This  continued  till 
all  were  there  save  the  cook,  the  two  sailmakers,  and  the 
second  mate.  The  last  to  come  out  were  Tom  Spink,  the 
boy  Buckwheat,  and  Herman  Lunkenheimer,  the  good- 
natured  but  simple-minded  German;  and  these  three  came 
out  only  after  repeated  threats  from  Bert  Ehine,  who,  with 
Nosey  Murphy  and  Kid  Twist,  was  patently  in  charge. 
Also,  like  a  faithful  dog,  Guido  Bombini  fawned  close 
to  him. 

"That  will  do — stop  where  you  are,"  Mr.  Pike  com 
manded,  when  the  crew  was  scattered  abreast,  to  starboard 
and  to  port,  of  Number  Three  hatch. 

It  was  a  striking  scene.  Mutiny  on  the  high  seas!  That 
phrase,  learned  in  boyhood  from  my  Marryat  and  Cooper, 
recrudesced  in  my  brain.  This  was  it — mutiny  on  the  high 
seas  in  the  year  nineteen  thirteen — and  I  was  part  of  it,  a 
perishing  blond  whose  lot  was  cast  with  the  perishing  but 
lordly  blonds,  and  I  had  already  killed  a  man. 

Mr.  Pike,  in  the  high  place,  aged  and  indomitable,  leaned 
his  arms  on  the  rail  at  the  break  of  the  poop  and  gazed 
down  at  the  mutineers,  the  like  of  which  I'll  wager  had 
never  been  assembled  in  mutiny  before.  There  were  the 
three  gangsters  and  ex- jailbirds,  anything  but  seamen  yet 
in  control  of  this  affair  that  was  peculiarly  an  affair  of 
the  sea.  "With  them  was  the  Italian  hound,  Bombini,  and 
beside  them  were  so  strangely  assorted  men  as  Anton 
Sorensen,  Lars  Jacobsen,  Frank  Fitzgibbon,  and  Richard 
Giller — also  Arthur  Deacon,  the  white  slaver;  John  Hack- 


300         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

ey,  the  San  Francisco  hoodlum;  the  Maltese  Cockney,  and 
Tony,  the  suicidal  Greek. 

I  noticed  the  three  strange  ones,  shouldering  together 
and  standing  apart  from  the  others  as  they  swayed  to  the 
lazy  roll  and  dreamed  with  their  pale  topaz  eyes.  And 
there  was  the  Faun,  stone-deaf  but  observant,  straining  to 
understand  what  was  taking  place.  Yes,  and  Mulligan 
Jacobs  and  Andy  Fay  were  bitterly  and  eagerly  side  by 
side,  and  Ditman  Olansen,  crank-eyed,  as  if  drawn  by  some 
affinity  of  bitterness,  stood  behind  them,  his  head  appear 
ing  between  their  heads.  Farthest  advanced  of  all  was 
Charles  Davis,  the  man  who  by  all  rights  should  long 
since  be  dead,  his  face  with  its  waxlike  pallor  startlingly 
in  contrast  to  the  weathered  faces  of  the  rest. 

I  glanced  back  at  Margaret,  who  was  coolly  steering,  and 
she  smiled  to  me,  and  love  was  in  her  eyes — she,  too,  of 
the  perishing  and  lordly  race  of  blonds,  her  place  the  high 
place,  her  heritage  government  and  command  and  mastery 
over  the  stupid  lowly  of  her  kind  and  over  the  ruck  and 
spawn  of  the  dark-pigmented  breeds. 

"Where's  Sidney  Waltham?"  the  mate  snarled.  "I 
want  him.  Bring  him  out.  After  that,  the  rest  of  you 
filth  get  back  to  work,  or  God  have  mercy  on  you. " 

The  men  moved  about  restlessly,  shuffling  their  feet  on 
the  deck. 

"Sidney  Waltham,  I  want  you — come  out!"  Mr.  Pike 
called,  addressing  himself  beyond  them  to  the  murderer 
of  the  captain  under  whom  once  he  had  sailed. 

The  prodigious  old  hero !  It  never  entered  his  head  that 
he  was  not  the  master  of  the  rabble  there  below  him.  He 
had  but  one  idea,  an  idea  of  passion,  and  that  was  his  de 
sire  for  vengeance  on  the  murderer  of  his  old  skipper. 

* '  You  old  stiff ! ' '  Mulligan  Jacobs  snarled  back. 

"Shut  up,  Mulligan!"  was  Bert  Rhine's  command,  in 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         301 

receipt  of  which  he  received  a  venomous  stare  from  the 
cripple. 

''Oh,  ho,  my  hearty,"  Mr.  Pike  sneered  at  the  gangster. 
1  *  I  '11  take  care  of  your  case,  never  fear.  In  the  meantime, 
and  right  now,  fetch  out  that  dog." 

Whereupon  he  ignored  the  leader  of  the  mutineers  and 
began  calling,  "Waltham,  you  dog,  come  out!  Come  out, 
you  sneaking  cur!  Come  out!" 

Another  lunatic  was  the  thought  that  flashed  through 
my  mind ;  another  lunatic,  the  slave  of  a  single  idea.  He 
forgets  the  mutiny,  his  fidelity  to  the  ship,  in  his  personal 
thirst  for  vengeance. 

But  did  he?  Even  as  he  forgot  and  called  his  heart's 
desire,  which  was  the  life  of  the  second  mate,  even  then, 
without  intention,  mechanically,  his  sailor's  considerative 
eye  lifted  to  note  the  draw  of  the  sails  and  roved  from 
sail  to  sail.  Thereupon,  so  reminded,  he  returned  to  his 
fidelity. 

"Well?"  he  snarled  at  Bert  Rhine.  "Go  on  and  get 
for  'ard  before  I  spit  on  you,  you  scum  and  slum.  I  '11  give 
you  and  the  rest  of  the  rats  two  minutes  to  return  to 
duty." 

And  the  leader,  with  his  two  fellow  gangsters,  laughed 
their  weird  silent  laughter. 

"I  guess  you'll  listen  to  our  talk  first,  old  horse,"  Bert 
Rhine  retorted.  "  .  .  .  Davis,  get  up  and  show  what  kind 
of  a  spieler  you  are.  Don't  get  cold  feet.  Spit  it  out  to 
Foxy  Grandpa  an'  tell  'm  what's  doin'." 

"You  damned  sea  lawyer!"  Mr.  Pike  snarled  as  Davis 
opened  his  mouth  to  speak. 

Bert  Rhine  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  half  turned  on 
his  heel  as  if  to  depart,  as  he  said  quietly : 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  want  to  talk.  ..." 

Mr.  Pike  conceded  a  point. 

"Go  on!"  he  snarled.    "Spit  the  dirt  out  of  your  sys- 


302         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE  j 

tern,  Davis,  but  remember  one  thing:  you'll  pay  for  this, 
and  you'll  pay  through  the  nose.  Go  on!" 

The  sea  lawyer  cleared  his  throat  in  preparation. 

"First  of  all,  I  ain't  got  no  part  in  this,"  he  began. 
"I'm  a  sick  man,  an'  I  oughta  be  in  my  bunk  right  now. 
I  ain't  fit  to  be  on  my  feet.  But  they've  asked  me  to 
advise  'em  on  the  law,  an'  I  have  advised  'em " 

"And  the  law — what  is  it?"  Mr.  Pike  broke  in. 

But  Davis  was  uncowed. 

' '  The  law  is  that  when  the  officers  is  inefficient  the  crew 
can  take  charge  peaceably  an'  bring  the  ship  into  port. 
It's  all  law  an'  in  the  records.  There  was  the  Abyssinia, 
in  eighteen  ninety-two,  when  the  master 'd  died  of  fever 
and  the  mates  took  to  drinkin'- 

"Go  on!"  Mr.  Pike  shut  him  off.  "I  don't  want  your 
citations.  What  d  'ye  want  ?  Spit  it  out. ' ' 

"Well — and  I'm  talkin'  as  an  outsider,  as  a  sick  man 
off  duty  that's  been  asked  to  talk — well,  the  point  is  our 
skipper  was  a  good  one,  but  he's  gone.  Our  mate  is  vio 
lent,  seekin'  the  life  of  the  second  mate.  We  don't  care 
about  that.  What  we  want  is  to  get  into  port  with  our 
lives.  An'  our  lives  is  in  danger.  We  ain't  hurt  nobody. 
You've  done  all  the  bloodshed.  You've  shot  an'  killed  an' 
thrown  two  men  overboard,  as  witnesses '11  testify  to  in 
court.  An'  there's  Roberts,  there,  dead,  too,  an'  headin' 
for  the  sharks — an '  what  for  ?  For  def endin '  himself  from 
murderous  an'  deadly  attack,  as  every  man  can  testify  an' 
tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  an'  nothin'  but  the  truth, 
so  help  m'  God — ain't  that  right,  men?" 

A  confused  murmur  of  assent  arose  from  many  of  them. 

"You  want  my  job,  eh?"  Mr.  Pike  grinned.  "An'  what 
are  you  goin'  to  do  with  mef" 

"You'll  be  taken  care  of  until  we  get  in  an'  turn  you 
over  to  the  lawful  authorities,"  Davis  answered  promptly. 
"Most  likely  you  can  plead  insanity  an'  get  off  easy." 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         303 

At  this  moment  I  felt  a  stir  at  my  shoulder.  It  was 
Margaret,  armed  with  the  long  knife  of  the  steward,  whom 
she  had  put  at  the  wheel. 

"You've  got  another  guess  comin',  Davis,"  Mr.  Pike 
said.  " I  've  got  no  more  talk  with  you.  I'm  goin' to  talk 
to  the  bunch.  I'll  give  you  fellows  just  two  minutes  to 
choose,  and  I  '11  tell  you  your  choices.  You  've  only  got  two 
choices.  You'll  turn  the  second  mate  over  to  me  an'  go 
back  to  duty  and  take  what's  comin'  to  you,  or  you'll  go 
to  jail  with  the  stripes  on  you  for  long  sentences.  You've 
got  two  minutes.  The  fellows  that  want  jail  can  stand 
right  where  they  are.  The  fellows  that  don't  want  jail 
and  are  willin '  to  work  faithful  can  walk  right  back  to  me 
here  on  the  poop.  Two  minutes,  an'  you  can  keep  your 
jaws  stopped  while  you  think  over  what  it's  goin'  to  be." 

He  turned  his  head  to  me  and  said  in  an  undertone: 
"Be  ready  with  that  popgun  for  trouble.  An'  don't  hesi 
tate.  Slap  it  into  'em — the  swine  that  think  they  can  put 
as  raw  a  deal  as  this  over  on  us. ' ' 

It  was  Buckwheat  who  made  the  first  move ;  but  so  tenta 
tive  was  it  that  it  got  no  farther  than  a  tensing  of  the 
legs  and  a  sway  forward  of  the  shoulders.  Nevertheless  it 
was  sufficient  to  start  Herman  Lunkenheimer,  who  thrust 
out  his  foot  and  began  confidently  to  walk  aft.  Kid  Twist 
gained  him  in  a  single  spring,  and  Kid  Twist,  his  wrist 
under  the  German's  throat  from  behind,  his  knee  pressed 
into  the  German's  back,  bent  the  man  backward  and  held 
him.  Even  as  the  rifle  came  to  my  shoulder,  the  hound 
Bombini  drew  his  knife  directly  beneath  Kid  Twist's 
wrist,  across  the  up-stretched  throat  of  the  man. 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  I  heard  Mr.  Pike's  "Plug 
him!"  and  pulled  the  trigger;  and  of  all  ungodly  things, 
the  bullet  missed,  and  caught  the  Faun,  who  staggered 
back,  sat  down  on  the  hatch,  and  began  to  cough.  And 


304         THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE 

even  as  he  coughed  he  still  strained  with  pain-eloquent  eyes 
to  try  to  understand. 

No  other  man  moved.  Herman  Lunkenheimer,  released 
by  Kid  Twist,  sank  down  on  the  deck.  Nor  did  I  shoot 
again.  Kid  Twist  stood  again  by  the  side  of  Bert  Rhine 
and  Guido  Bombini  fawned  near. 

Bert  Rhine  actually  visibly  smiled. 

"Any  more  of  you  guys  want  to  promenade  aft?"  he 
queried  in  velvet  tones. 

"Two  minutes  up,"  Mr.  Pike  declared. 

"An'  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Grandpa?" 
Bert  Rhine  sneered. 

In  a  flash  the  mate's  big  automatic  was  out  and  he  was 
shooting  as  fast  as  he  could  pull  trigger,  while  all  hands 
fled  to  shelter.  But,  as  he  had  told  me,  he  was  no  shot  and 
could  effectively  use  the  weapon  only  at  close  range. 

As  we  stared  at  the  main  deck,  deserted  save  for  the 
dead  cowboy  on  his  back  and  for  the  Faun,  who  still  sat 
on  the  hatch  and  coughed,  an  eruption  of  men  occurred 
over  the  for'ard  edge  of  the  'midship  house. 

"Shoot!"  Margaret  cried  at  my  back. 

"Don't!"  Mr.  Pike  roared  at  me. 

The  rifle  was  at  my  shoulder  when  I  desisted.  Louis, 
the  cook,  led  the  rush  aft  to  us  across  the  top  of  the  house 
and  along  the  bridge.  Behind  him,  in  single  file  and  not 
wasting  any  time,  came  the  Japanese  sailmakers,  Henry, 
the  training-ship  boy,  and  the  other  boy,  Buckwheat.  Torn 
Spink  brought  up  the  rear.  As  he  came  up  the  ladder  of 
the  'midship  house  somebody  from  beneath  must  have 
caught  him  by  a  leg  in  an  effort  to  drag  him  back.  We 
saw  half  of  him  in  sight  and  knew  that  he  was  struggling 
and  kicking.  He  fetched  clear  abruptly,  gained  the  top  of 
the  house  in  a  surge,  and  raced  aft  along  the  bridge  until 
he  overtook  and  collided  with  Buckwheat,  who  yelled  out 
in  fear  that  a  mutineer  had  caught  him. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

WE  who  are  aft,  besieged  in  the  high  place,  are  stronger 
in  numbers  than  I  dreamed  until  now,  when  I  have  just 
finished  taking  the  ship's  census.  Of  course,  Margaret, 
Mr.  Pike  and  myself  are  apart.  We  alone  represent  the 
ruling  class.  With  us  are  servants  and  serfs,  faithful  to 
their  salt,  who  look  to  us  for  guidance  and  life. 

I  use  my  words  advisedly.  Tom  Spink  and  Buckwheat 
are  serfs  and  nothing  else.  Henry,  the  training-ship  boy, 
occupies  an  anomalous  classification.  He  is  of  our  kind, 
but  he  can  scarcely  be  called  even  a  cadet  of  our  kind. 
He  will  some  day  win  to  us  and  become  a  mate  or  a  cap 
tain,  but  in  the  meantime,  of  course,  his  past  is  against 
him.  He  is  a  candidate,  rising  from  the  serf  class  to  our 
class.  Also,  he  is  only  a  youth,  the  iron  of  his  heredity 
not  yet  tested  and  proven. 

Wada,  Louis,  and  the  steward  are  servants  of  Asiatic 
breed.  So  are  the  two  Japanese  sailmakers — scarcely  serv 
ants,  not  to  be  called  slaves,  but  something  in  and  between. 

So,  all  told,  there  are  eleven  of  us  aft  in  the  citadel.  But 
our  followers  are  too  servant-like  and  serflike  to  be  offen 
sive  fighters.  They  will  help  us  defend  the  high  place 
against  all  attack,  but  they  are  incapable  of  joining  with 
us  in  an  attack  on  the  other  end  of  the  ship.  They  will 
fight  like  cornered  rats  to  preserve  their  lives,  but  they 
will  not  advance  like  tigers  upon  the  enemy.  Tom  Spink 
is  faithful  but  spirit-broken.  Buckwheat  is  hopelessly  of 
the  stupid  lowly.  Henry  has  not  yet  won  his  spurs.  On 
our  side  remain  Margaret,  Mr.  Pike,  and  myself.  The  rest 
will  hold  the  wall  of  the  poop  and  fight  thereon  to  the 
death,  but  they  are  not  to  be  depended  upon  in  a  sortie. 

305 


306         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

At  the  other  end  of  the  ship — and  I  may  as  well  give  the 
roster — are  the  second  mate,  either  to  be  called  Mellaire 
or  "Waltham,  a  strong  man  of  our  own  breed,  but  a  rene 
gade;  the  three  gangsters,  killers  and  jackals,  Bert  Rhine, 
Nosey  Murphy,  and  Kid  Twist;  the  Maltese  Cockney  and 
Tony,  the  crazy  Greek;  Frank  Fitzgibbon  and  Richard 
Giller,  the  survivors  of  the  trio  of  "bricklayers";  Anton 
Sorensen  and  Lars  Jacobsen,  stupid  Scandinavian  sailor- 
men;  Ditman  Olansen,  the  crank-eyed  Berserk;  John 
Hackey  and  Arthur  Deacon,  respectively  hoodlum  and 
white-slaver;  Shorty,  the  mixed-breed  clown;  Guido  Bom- 
bini,  the  Italian  hound;  Andy  Fay  and  Mulligan  Jacobs, 
the  bitter  ones ;  the  three  topaz-eyed  dreamers  who  are  un- 
classifiable ;  Isaac  Chantz,  the  wounded  Jew ;  Bob,  the  over 
grown  dolt ;  the  feeble-minded  Faun,  lung-wounded ;  Nancy 
and  Sundry  Buyers,  the  two  hopeless,  helpless  bosuns ;  and, 
finally,  the  sea  lawyer,  Charles  Davis. 

This  makes  twenty-seven  of  them  against  the  eleven  of 
us.  But  there  are  men,  strong  in  viciousness,  among  them. 
They,  too,  have  their  serfs  and  bravos.  Guido  Bombini  and 
Isaac  Chantz  are  certainly  bravos.  And  weaklings  like 
Sorensen,  and  Jacobsen,  and  Bob  cannot  be  anything  else 
than  slaves  to  the  men  who  compose  the  gangster  clique. 

I  failed  to  tell  what  happened  yesterday,  after  Mr.  Pike 
emptied  his  automatic  and  cleared  the  deck.  The  poop  was 
indubitably  ours,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  the  mu 
tineers  making  a  charge  on  us  in  broad  daylight.  Mar 
garet  had  gone  below,  accompanied  by  Wada,  to  see  to 
the  security  of  the  port  and  starboard  doors  that  open 
from  the  cabin  directly  on  the  main  deck.  These  are  still 
calked  and  tight  and  fastened  on  the  inside,  as  they  have 
been  since  the  passage  of  Cape  Horn  began. 

Mr.  Pike  put  one  of  the  sailmakers  at  the  wheel,  and  the 
steward,  relieved  and  starting  below,  was  attracted  to  the 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         307 

port  quarter,  where  the  patent  log  that  towed  astern  was 
made  fast.  Margaret  had  returned  his  knife  to  him,  and 
he  was  carrying  it  in  his  hand  when  his  attention  was  at 
tracted  astern  to  our  wake.  Mike  Cipriani  and  Bill  Quig- 
ley  had  managed  to  catch  the  lazily  moving  logline  and 
were  clinging  to  it.  The  Elsinore  was  moving  just  fast 
enough  to  keep  them  on  the  surface  instead  of  dragging 
them  under.  Above  them  and  about  them  circled  curious 
and  hungry  albatrosses,  Cape  hens,  and  mollyhawks.  Even 
as  I  glimpsed  the  situation,  one  of  the  big  birds,  a  ten- 
footer  at  least,  with  a  ten-inch  beak  to  the  fore,  dropped 
down  on  the  Italian.  Releasing  his  hold  with  one  hand,  he 
struck  with  his  knife  at  the  bird.  Feathers  flew,  and  the 
albatross,  deflected  by  the  blow,  fell  clumsily  into  the 
water. 

Quite  methodically,  just  as  part  of  the  day's  work,  the 
steward  chopped  down  with  his  knife,  catching  the  log- 
line  between  the  steel  edge  and  the  rail.  At  once,  no 
longer  buoyed  up  by  the  Elsinore' s  two-knot  drag  ahead, 
the  wounded  men  began  to  swim  and  flounder.  The  cir 
cling  hosts  of  huge  seabirds  descended  upon  them,  with  car 
nivorous  beaks  striking  at  their  heads  and  shoulders  and 
arms.  A  great  screeching  and  squawking  arose  from  the 
winged  things  of  prey  as  they  strove  for  the  living  meat. 
And  yet,  somehow,  I  was  not  very  profoundly  shocked. 
These  were  the  men  whom  I  had  seen  eviscerate  the  shark 
and  toss  it  overboard,  and  shout  with  joy  as  they  watched 
it  devoured  alive  by  its  brethren.  They  had  played  a  vio 
lent,  cruel  game  with  the  things  of  life,  and  the  things 
of  life  now  played  upon  them  the  same  violent,  cruel  game. 
As  they  that  live  by  the  sword  perish  by  the  sword,  just 
so  did  these  two  men  who  had  lived  cruelly  die  cruelly. 

''Oh,  well,"  was  Mr.  Pike's  comment,  £<  we've  saved  two 
sacks  of  mighty  good  coal." 


308         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Certainly  our  situation  might  be  worse.  We  are  cook 
ing  on  the  coal  stove  and  on  the  oil  burners.  We  have 
servants  to  cook  and  serve  for  us.  And,  most  important 
of  all,  we  are  in  possession  of  all  the  food  on  the  Elsinore. 

Mr.  Pike  makes  no  mistake.  Realizing  that  with  our 
crowd  we  cannot  rush  the  crowd  at  the  other  end  of  the 
ship,  he  accepts  the  siege,  which,  as  he  says,  consists  of  the 
besieged  holding  all  food  supplies  while  the  besiegers  are 
on  the  imminent  edge  of  famine. 

" Starve  the  dogs,"  he  growls.  "Starve  'm  until  they 
crawl  aft  and  lick  our  shoes.  Maybe  you  think  the  custom 
of  carrying  the  stores  aft  just  happened.  Only  it  didn't, 
Before  you  and  I  were  born  it  was  long-established  and 
it  was  established  on  brass  tacks.  They  knew  what  they 
were  about,  the  old  cusses,  when  they  put  the  grub  in  the 
lazarette. ' ' 

Louis  says  there  is  not  more  than  three  days'  regular 
whack  in  the  galley;  that  the  barrel  of  hardtack  in  the 
forecastle  will  quickly  go;  and  that  our  chickens,  which 
they  stole  last  night  from  the  top  of  the  'midship  house, 
are  equivalent  to  no  more  than  an  additional  day 's  supply. 
In  short,  at  the  outside  limit,  we  are  convinced  the  men 
will  be  keen  to  talk  surrender  within  the  week. 

We  are  no  longer  sailing.  In  last  night's  darkness  we 
helplessly  listened  to  the  men  loosing  headsail  halyards 
and  letting  yards  go  down  on  the  run.  Under  orders  of 
Mr.  Pike  I  shot  blindly  and  many  times  into  the  dark,  but 
without  result,  save  that  we  heard  the  bullets  of  answering 
shots  strike  against  the  charthouse.  So  to-day  we  have 
not  even  a  man  at  the  wheel.  The  Elsinore  drifts  idly  on 
an  idle  sea,  and  we  stand  regular  watches  in  the  shelter  of 
charthouse  and  jiggermast.  Mr.  Pike  says  it  is  the  laziest 
time  he  has  had  on  the  whole  voyage. 

I  alternate  watches  with  him,  although,  when  on  duty, 
there  is  little  to  be  done,  save  in  the  daytime  to  stand, 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOEE         309 

rifle  in  hand,  behind  the  jiggermast,  and,  in  the  night,  to 
lurk  along  the  break  of  the  poop.  Behind  the  charthouse, 
ready  to  repel  assault,  are  my  watch  of  four  men:  Tom 
Spink,  Wada,  Buckwheat,  and  Louis.  Henry,  the  two 
Japanese  sailmakers,  and  the  old  steward  compose  Mr. 
Pike's  watch. 

It  is  his  orders  that  no  one  for'ard  is  to  be  allowed  to 
show  himself,  so  to-day,  when  the  second  mate  appeared 
at  the  corner  of  the  'midship  house,  I  made  him  take  a 
quick  leap  back  with  the  thud  of  my  bullet  against  the 
iron  wall,  a  foot  from  his  head.  Charles  Davis  tried  the 
same  game  and  was  similarly  stimulated. 

Also,  this  evening,  after  dark,  Mr.  Pike  put  block  and 
tackle  on  the  first  section  of  the  bridge,  heaved  it  out  of 
place,  and  lowered  it  upon  the  poop.  Likewise  he  hoisted 
in  the  ladder  at  the  break  of  the  poop  that  leads  down  to 
the  main  deck.  The  men  will  have  to  do  some  climbing  if 
they  ever  elect  to  rush  us. 

I  am  writing  this  in  my  Watch  below.  I  came  off  duty 
at  eight  o'clock,  and  at  midnight  I  go  on  deck  to  stay  till 
four  to-morrow  morning.  Wada  shakes  his  head  and  says 
that  the  Blackwood  Company  should  rebate  us  on  the  first- 
class  passage  paid  in  advance.  We  are  working  our  pas 
sage,  he  contends. 

Margaret  takes  the  adventure  joyously.  It  is  the  first 
time  she  has  experienced  mutiny,  but  she  is  such  a  thorough 
sea  woman  that  she  appears  like  an  old  hand  at  the  game. 
She  leaves  the  deck  to  the  mate  and  me,  but,  still  acknowl 
edging  his  leadership,  she  has  taken  charge  below  and 
entirely  manages  the  commissary,  the  cooking,  and  the 
sleeping  arrangements.  We  still  keep  our  old  quarters, 
and  she  has  bedded  the  newcomers  in  the  big  after-room 
with  blankets  issued  from  the  slopchest. 

In  a  way,  from  the  standpoint  of  her  personal  welfare, 
the  mutiny  is  the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened  to 


310         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

her.  It  has  taken  her  mind  off  of  her  father  and  filled  her 
waking  hours  with  work  to  do.  This  afternoon,  standing 
above  the  open  booby  hatch,  I  heard  her  laugh  ring  out 
as  in  the  old  days,  coming  down  the  Atlantic.  Yes,  and 
she  hums  snatches  of  songs  under  her  breath  as  she  works. 
In  the  second  dog  watch  this  evening,  after  Mr.  Pike  had 
finished  dinner  and  joined  us  on  the  poop,  she  told  him 
that  if  he  did  not  soon  re-rig  his  phonograph  she  was  going 
to  start  in  on  the  piano.  The  reason  she  advanced  was  the 
psychological  effect  such  sounds  of  revelry  would  have  on 
the  starving  mutineers. 

The  days  pass  and  nothing  of  moment  happens.  We  get 
nowhere.  The  Elsinore,  without  the  steadying  of  her  can 
vas,  rolls  emptily  and  drifts  a  lunatic  course.  Sometimes 
she  is  bow  on  to  the  wind,  and  at  other  times  she  is  directly 
before  it;  but  at  all  times  she  is  circling  vaguely  and 
hesitantly  to  get  somewhere  else  than  where  she  is.  As 
an  illustration,  at  daylight  this  morning  she  came  up  into 
the  wind  as  if  endeavoring  to  go  about.  In  the  course  of 
half  an  hour  she  worked  off  till  the  wind  was  directly 
abeam.  In  another  half  hour  she  was  back  into  the  wind. 
Not  until  evening  did  she  manage  to  get  the  wind  on  her 
poil  bow,  but  when  she  did  she  immediately  paid  off, 
accomplished  the  complete  circle  in  an  hour,  and  recom 
menced  her  morning  tactics  of  trying  to  get  into  the  wind. 

And  there  is  nothing  for  us  to  do  save  hold  the  poop 
against  the  attack  that  is  never  made.  Mr.  Pike,  more 
from  force  of  habit  than  anything  else,  takes  his  regular 
observations  and  works  up  the  Elsinore' s  position.  This 
noon  she  was  eight  miles  east  of  yesterday's  position,  yet 
to-day's  position,  in  longitude,  was  within  a  mile  of  where 
she  was  four  days  ago.  On  the  other  hand,  she  invariably 
makes  northing  at  the  rate  of  seven  or  eight  miles  a  day. 

Aloft  the  Elsinore  is  a  sad  spectacle.     All  is  confusion 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         311 

and  disorder.  The  sails,  unfurled,  are  a  slovenly  mess 
along  the  yards,  and  many  loose  ends  sway  dismally  to 
every  roll.  The  only  yard  that  is  loose  is  the  mainyard. 
It  is  fortunate  that  wind  and  wave  are  mild,  else  would 
the  ironwork  carry  away  and  the  mutineers  find  the  huge 
thing  of  steel  about  their  ears. 

There  is  one  thing  we  cannot  understand.  A  week  has 
passed,  and  the  men  show  no  signs  of  being  starved  into 
submission.  Repeatedly  and  in  vain  has  Mr.  Pike  inter 
rogated  the  hands  aft  with  us.  One  and  all,  from  the 
cook  to  Buckwheat,  they  swear  they  have  no  knowledge  of 
any  food  for'ard,  save  the  small  supply  in  the  galley  and 
the  barrel  of  hardtack  in  the  forecastle.  Yet  it  is  very 
evident  that  those  for'ard  are  not  starving.  We  see  the 
smoke  from  the  galley  stove  and  can  only  conclude  that 
they  have  food  to  cook. 

Twice  has  Bert  Rhine  attempted  a  truce,  but  both  times 
his  white  flag,  as  soon  as  it  showed  above  the  edge  of  the 
'midship  house,  was  fired  upon  by  Mr.  Pike.  The  last 
occurrence  was  two  days  ago.  It  was  Mr.  Pike's  intention 
thoroughly  to  starve  them  into  submission,  but  now  he  is 
beginning  to  worry  about  their  mysterious  food  supply. 

Mr.  Pike  is  not  quite  himself.  He  is  obsessed,  I  know 
beyond  any  doubt,  with  the  idea  of  vengeance  on  the  sec 
ond  mate.  On  divers  occasions  now  I  have  come  unex 
pectedly  upon  him  and  found  him  muttering  to  himself 
with  grim-set  face,  or  clenching  and  unclenching  his  big 
square  fists  and  grinding  his  teeth.  His  conversation  con 
tinually  runs  upon  the  feasibility  of  our  making  a  night 
attack  for'ard,  and  he  is  perpetually  questioning  Tom 
Spink  and  Louis  on  their  ideas  of  where  the  various  men 
may  be  sleeping — the  point  of  which  always  is:  where  is 
the  second  mate  likely  to  be  sleeping? 

No  later  than  yesterday  afternoon  did  he  give  me  most 
positive  proof  of  his  obsession.  It  was  four  o'clock,  the 


312         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

beginning  of  the  first  dog  watch,  and  he  had  just  relieved 
me.  So  careless  have  we  grown  that  we  now  stand  in 
broad  daylight  at  the  exposed  break  of  the  poop.  Nobody 
shoots  at  us,  and,  occasionally,  over  the  top  of  the  for'ard 
house,  Shorty  sticks  up  his  head  and  grins  or  makes  clown 
ish  faces  at  us.  At  such  times  Mr.  Pike  studies  Shorty's 
features  through  the  telescope  in  an  effort  to  find  signs  of 
starvation.  Yet  he  admits  dolefully  that  Shorty  is  looking 
fleshed-up. 

But  to  return.  Mr.  Pike  had  just  relieved  me  yester 
day  afternoon,  when  the  second  mate  climbed  the  fore 
castle-head  and  sauntered  to  the  very  eyes  of  the  Elsinore, 
where  he  stood  gazing  overside. 

"Take  a  crack  at  'm,"  Mr.  Pike  said. 

It  was  a  long  shot,  and  I  was  taking  slow  and  careful 
aim  when  he  touched  my  arm. 

"No,  don't,"  he  said. 

I  lowered  the  little  rifle  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"You  might  hit  him,"  he  explained. 

Life  is  never  what  we  expect  it  to  be.  All  our  voyage 
from  Baltimore  south  to  the  Horn  and  around  the  Horn 
has  been  marked  by  violence  and  death.  And  now  that  it 
has  culminated  in  open  mutiny  there  is  no  more  violence, 
much  less  death.  We  keep  to  ourselves  aft,  and  the  mu 
tineers  keep  to  themselves  for'ard.  There  is  no  more 
harshness,  no  more  snarling  and  bellowing  of  commands, 
and  in  this  fine  weather  a  general  festival  obtains. 

Aft,  Mr.  Pike  and  Margaret  alternate  with  phonograph 
and  piano;  and  for'ard,  although  we  cannot  see  them,  a 
full-fledged  "foo-foo"  band  makes  most  of  the  day  and 
night  hideous.  A  squealing  accordion,  that  Tom  Spink 
says  was  the  property  of  Mike  Cipriani,  is  played  by  Guido 
Bombini,  who  sets  the  pace  and  seems  the  leader  of  the 
foo-foo.  There  are  two  broken-reeded  harmonicas.  Some 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         313 

one  plays  a  jews '-harp.  Then  there  are  home-made  fifes 
and  whistles  and  drums,  combs  covered  with  paper,  ex 
temporized  triangles,  and  bones,  such  as  negro  minstrels 
use,  made  from  ribs  of  salt  horse. 

The  whole  crew  seems  to  compose  the  band,  and,  like  a 
lot  of  monkey  folk  rejoicing  in  rude  rhythm,  emphasizes 
the  beat  by  hammering  kerosene  cans,  frying  pans,  and  all 
sorts  of  things  metallic  or  reverberant.  Some  genius  has 
rigged  a  line  to  the  clapper  of  the  ship 's  bell  on  the  fore 
castle-head  and  clangs  it  horribly  in  the  big  foo-foo  crises, 
though  Bombini  can  be  heard  censuring  him  severely  on 
occasion.  And,  to  cap  it  all,  the  foghorn  machine  pumps 
in  at  the  oddest  moments  in  imitation  of  a  big  bass  viol. 

And  this  is  mutiny  on  the  high  seas!  Almost  every 
hour  of  my  deck  watches  I  listen  to  this  infernal  din,  and 
am  maddened  into  desire  to  join  with  Mr.  Pike  in  a  night 
attack  and  put  these  rebellious  and  inharmonious  slaves  to 
work. 

Yet  they  are  not  entirely  inharmonious.  Guido  Bombini 
has  a  respectable  though  untrained  tenor  voice,  and  has 
surprised  me  by  a  variety  of  selections,  not  only  from 
Verdi,  but  from  Wagner  and  Massenet.  Bert  Rhine  and 
his  crowd  are  full  of  ragtime  junk,  and  one  phrase  that 
has  caught  the  fancy  of  all  hands,  and  which  they  roar 
out  at  all  times,  is:  "It's  a  bear!  It's  a  bear!  It's  a 
bear!"  This  morning  Nancy,  evidently  very  strongly  urged, 
gave  a  doleful  rendering  of  "Flying  Cloud."  Yes,  and  in 
the  second  dog  watch  last  evening  our  three  topaz-eyed 
dreamers  sang  some  folk  song  strangely  sweet  and  sad. 

And  this  is  mutiny !  As  I  write  I  can  scarcely  believe  it. 
Yet  I  know  Mr.  Pike  keeps  the  watch  over  my  head.  I 
hear  the  shrill  laughter  of  the  steward  and  Louis  over 
some  ancient  Chinese  joke.  Wada  and  the  sailmakers,  in 
the  pantry,  are,  I  know,  talking  Japanese  politics.  And 


314         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

from  across  the  cabin,  along  the  narrow  halls,  I  can  hear 
Margaret  softly  humming  as  she  goes  to  bed. 

But  all  doubts  vanish  at  the  stroke  of  eight  bells,  when 
I  go  on  deck  to  relieve  Mr.  Pike,  who  lingers  a  moment  for 
a  "gam,"  as  he  calls  it. 

"Say,"  he  said  confidentially,  "you  and  I  can  clean  out 
the  whole  gang.  All  we  got  to  do  is  sneak  for  'ard  and  turn 
loose.  As  soon  as  we  begin  to  shoot  up,  half  of  'em  11 
bolt  aft — lobsters  like  Nancy,  an'  Sundry  Buyers,  an' 
Jacobsen,  an'  Bob,  an'  Shorty,  an'  them  three  castaways, 
for  instance.  An'  while  they're  doin'  that,  an'  our  bunch 
on  the  poop  is  takin'  'em  in,  you  an'  me  can  make  a  pretty 
big  hole  in  them  that's  left.  What  d'ye  say?" 

I  hesitated,  thinking  of  Margaret. 

"Why,  say,"  he  urged,  "once  I  jumped  into  that  fo' 
c's'le,  at  close  range,  I'd  start  right  in,  blim-blam-blim, 
fast  as  you  could  wink,  nailing  them  gangsters,  an'  Bom- 
bini,  an'  the  Sheeny,  an'  Deacon,  an'  the  Cockney,  an' 
Mulligan  Jacobs,  an'  ...  an'  ...  Waltham.  ..." 

"That  would  be  nine,"  I  smiled.  "You've  only  eight 
shots  in  your  Colt's." 

Mr.  Pike  considered  a  moment  and  revised  his  list. 

' '  All  right, ' '  he  agreed.  ' '  I  guess  1 11  have  to  let  Jacobs 
go.  What  d'ye  say?  Are  you  game?" 

Still  I  hesitated,  but  before  I  could  speak  he  anticipated 
me  and  returned  to  his  fidelity. 

"No,  you  can't  do  it,  Mr.  Pathurst.  If  by  any  luck 
they  got  the  both  of  us.  ...  No;  well  just  stay  aft  and 
sit  tight  until  they're  starved  to  it.  ...  But  where  they 
get  their  tucker  gets  me.  For 'ard  she's  as  bare  as  a  bone, 
as  any  decent  ship  ought  to  be,  and  yet  look  at  'em,  rollin' 
hog  fat.  And  by  rights  they  ought  to  a-quit  eatin'  a  week 
ago." 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

YES,  it  is  certainly  mutiny.  Collecting  water  from  the 
leaders  of  the  charthouse  in  a  shower  of  rain  this  morning, 
Buckwheat  exposed  himself,  and  a  long,  lucky,  revolver 
shot  from  for'ard  caught  him  in  the  shoulder.  The  bullet 
was  small  caliber  and  spent  ere  it  reached  him,  so  that  he 
received  no  more  than  a  flesh  wound,  though  he  carried  on 
as  if  he  were  dying  until  Mr.  Pike  hushed  his  noise  by 
cuffing  his  ears. 

I  should  not  like  to  have  Mr.  Pike  for  my  surgeon.  He 
probed  for  the  bullet  with  his  little  finger,  which  Was  far 
too  big  for  the  aperture,  and  with  his  little  finger,  while 
with  his  other  hand  he  threatened  another  ear  clout,  he 
gouged  out  the  leaden  pellet.  Then  he  sent  the  boy  below, 
where  Margaret  took  him  in  charge  with  antiseptics  and 
dressings. 

I  see  her  so  rarely  that  a  half  hour  alone  with  her  these 
days  is  an  adventure.  She  is  busy  morning  to  night  in 
keeping  her  house  in  order.  As  I  write  this,  through  my 
open  door  I  can  hear  her  laying  the  law  down  to  the  men 
in  the  after-room.  She  has  issued  underclothes  all  around 
from  the  slopchest,  and  is  ordering  them  to  take  a  bath  in 
the  rainwater  just  caught.  And  to  make  sure  of  their 
thoroughness  in  the  matter,  she  has  told  off  Louis  and  the 
steward  to  supervise  the  operation.  Also,  she  has  forbid 
den  them  smoking  their  pipes  in  the  after  room.  And,  to 
cap  everything,  they  are  to  scrub  walls,  ceiling,  every 
thing,  and  then  start  to-morrow  morning  at  painting.  All 
of  which  serves  to  convince  me  almost  that  mutiny  does 
not  obtain  and  that  I  have  imagined  it. 

315 


316         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

But  no.  I  hear  Buckwheat  blubbering  and  demanding 
how  he  can  take  a  bath  in  his  wounded  condition.  I  wait 
and  listen  for  Margaret's  judgment.  Nor  am  I  disap 
pointed.  Tom  Spink  and  Henry  are  told  off  to  the  task, 
and  the  thorough  scrubbing  of  Buckwheat  is  assured. 

The  mutineers  are  not  starving.  To-day  they  have  been 
fishing  for  albatrosses.  A  few  minutes  after  they  caught 
the  first  one  its  carcass  was  flung  overboard.  Mr.  Pike 
studied  it  through  his  sea  glasses,  and  I  heard  him  grit  his 
teeth  when  he  made  certain  that  it  was  not  the  mere  feath 
ers  and  skin  but  the  entire  carcass.  They  had  taken  only 
its  wing  bones  to  make  into  pipestems.  The  inference  was 
obvious:  starving  men  would  not  throw  meat  away  in 
such  fashion. 

But  where  do  they  get  their  food?  It  is  a  sea  mystery 
in  itself,  although  I  might  not  so  deem  it  were  it  not  for 
Mr.  Pike. 

"I  think  and  think  till  my  brain  is  all  frazzled  out/'  he 
tells  me ;  "  and  yet  I  can 't  get  a  line  on  it.  I  know  every 
inch  of  space  on  the  Elsinore,  and  I  know  there  isn't  an 
ounce  of  grub  anywhere  for'ard,  and  yet  they  eat!  I've 
overhauled  the  lazarette.  As  near  as  I  can  make  it  out, 
nothing  is  missing.  Then  where  do  they  get  it?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know.  Where  do  they  get  it?" 

I  know  that  this  morning  he  spent  hours  in  the  lazarette 
with  the  steward  and  the  cook,  overhauling  and  checking 
off  from  the  lists  of  the  Baltimore  agents.  And  I  know 
that  they  came  up  out  of  the  lazarette,  the  three  of  them, 
dripping  with  perspiration  and  baffled.  The  steward  has 
raised  the  hypothesis  that,  first  of  all,  there  were  extra 
stores  left  over  from  the  previous  voyage,  or  from  previ 
ous  voyages,  and,  next,  that  the  stealing  of  these  stores 
must  have  taken  place  during  the  night  watches  when  it 
was  Mr.  Pike's  turn  below. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         317 

At  any  rate,  the  mate  takes  the  food  mystery  almost  as 
much  to  heart  as  he  takes  the  persistent  and  propinquitous 
existence  of  Sidney  Waltham. 

I  am  coming  to  realize  the  meaning  of  watch-and-watch. 
To  begin  with,  I  spend  on  deck  twelve  hours,  and  a  frac 
tion  more,  of  each  twenty-four.  A  fair  portion  of  the 
remaining  twelve  is  spent  in  eating,  in  dressing  and  in 
undressing,  and  with  Margaret.  As  a  result,  I  feel  the 
need  for  more  sleep  than  I  am  getting.  I  scarcely  read  at 
all  now.  The  moment  my  head  touches  the  pillow  I  am 
asleep.  Oh,  I  sleep  like  a  baby,  eat  like  a  navvy,  and  in 
years  have  not  enjoyed  such  physical  well-being.  I  tried 
to  read  George  Moore  last  night,  and  was  dreadfully  bored. 
He  may  be  a  realist,  but  I  solemnly  aver  he  does  not  know 
reality  on  that  tight  little  sheltered-life  archipelago  of  his. 
If  he  could  wind- jam  around  the  Horn  just  one  voyage  he 
would  be  twice  the  writer. 

And  Mr.  Pike  for  practically  all  of  his  sixty-nine  years 
has  stood  his  Watch-and-watch,  with  many  a  spill-over  of 
watches  into  watches.  And  yet  he  is  iron.  In  a  struggle 
with  him  I  am  confident  that  he  would  break  me  like  so 
much  straw.  He  is  truly  a  prodigy  of  a  man,  and,  so  far 
as  to-day  is  concerned,  an  anachronism. 

The  Faun  is  not  dead,  despite  my  unlucky  bullet.  Henry 
insisted  that  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  yesterday.  To 
day  I  saw  him  myself.  He  came  to  the  corner  of  the  'mid 
ship  house  and  gazed  wistfully  aft  at  the  poop,  straining 
and  eager  to  understand.  In  the  same  way  I  have  often 
seen  Possum  gaze  at  me. 

It  has  just  struck  me  that,  of  our  eight  followers,  five 
are  Asiatic  and  only  three  are  our  own  breed.  Somehow  it 
reminds  me  of  India  and  of  Clive  and  Hastings. 

And  the  fine  weather  continues,  and  we  wonder  how 
long  a  time  must  elapse  ere  our  mutineers  eat  up  their 
mysterious  food  and  are  starved  back  to  work. 


318         THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

We  are  almost  due  west  of  Valparaiso  and  quite  a  bit 
less  than  a  thousand  miles  off  the  west  coast  of  South 
America.  The  light  northerly  breezes,  varying  from  north 
east  to  west,  would,  according  to  Mr.  Pike,  work  us  in 
nicely  for  Valparaiso  if  only  we  had  sail  on  the  Elsinore. 
As  it  is,  sailless,  she  drifts  around  and  about  and  makes 
nowhere  save  for  the  slight  northerly  drift  each  day. 

Mr.  Pike  is  beside  himself.  In  the  past  two  days  he  has 
displayed  increasing  obsession  of  the  one  idea  of  vengeance 
on  the  second  mate.  It  is  not  the  mutiny,  irksome  as  it  is 
and  helpless  as  it  makes  him;  it  is  the  presence  of  the 
murderer  of  his  old-time  and  admired  skipper,  Captain 
Somers. 

The  mate  grins  at  the  mutiny,  calls  it  a  snap,  speaks 
gleefully  of  how  his  wages  are  running  up,  and  regrets  that 
he  is  not  ashore  where  he  would  be  able  to  take  a  hand  in 
gambling  on  the  reinsurance.  But  the  sight  of  Sidney 
Waltham,  calmly  gazing  at  sea  and  sky  from  the  forecastle- 
head,  or  astride  the  far  end  of  the  bowsprit  and  fishing  for 
sharks,  maddens  him.  Yesterday,  coming  to  relieve  me,  he 
borrowed  my  rifle  and  turned  loose  the  stream  of  tiny 
pellets  on  the  second  mate,  who  coolly  made  his  line  secure 
ere  he  scrambled  inboard.  Of  course,  it  was  only  one 
chance  in  a  hundred  that  Mr.  Pike  might  have  hit  him, 
but  Sidney  Waltham  did  not  care  to  encourage  the  chance. 

And  yet  it  is  not  like  mutiny — not  like  the  conventional 
mutiny  I  absorbed  as  a  boy  and  which  has  become  classic 
in  the  literature  of  the  sea.  There  is  no  hand  to  hand 
fighting,  no  crash  of  cannon  and  flash  of  cutlass,  no  sailors 
drinking  grog,  no  lighted  matches  held  over  open  powder 
magazines.  Heavens! — there  isn't  a  single  cutlass  nor  a 
powder  magazine  on  board.  And  as  for  grog,  not  a  man 
has  had  a  drink  since  Baltimore, 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         319 

Well,  it  is  mutiny,  after  all.  I  shall  never  doubt  it 
again.  It  may  be  nineteen-thirteen  mutiny  on  a  coal  car 
rier,  with,  feeblings  and  imbeciles  and  criminals  for  mu 
tineers;  but  at  any  rate  mutiny  it  is,  and  at  least  in  the 
number  of  deaths  it  is  reminiscent  of  the  old  days.  For 
things  have  happened  since  last  I  had  opportunity  to  write 
up  this  log.  For  that  matter,  I  am  now  the  keeper  of  the 
Elsinore's  official  log  as  well,  in  which  work  Margaret 
helps  me. 

And  I  might  have  known  it  would  happen.  At  four  yes 
terday  morning  I  relieved  Mr.  Pike.  When  in  the  dark 
ness  I  came  up  to  him  at  the  break  of  the  poop  I  had 
to  speak  to  him  twice  to  make  him  aware  of  my  presence. 
And  then  he  merely  grunted  acknowledgment  in  an  absent 
sort  of  way.  The  next  moment  he  brightened  up  and  was 
himself  save  that  he  was  too  bright.  He  was  making  an 
effort.  I  felt  this,  but  was  quite  unprepared  for  what 
followed. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  said,  as  he  put  his  leg 
over  the  rail  and  lightly  and  swiftly  lowered  himself  down 
into  the  darkness. 

There  was  nothing  I  could  do.  To  cry  out  or  to  attempt 
to  reason  with  him  would  only  have  drawn  the  mutineers' 
attention.  I  heard  his  feet  strike  the  deck  beneath  as  he 
let  go.  Immediately  he  started  for'ard.  Little  enough  pre 
caution  he  took.  I  swear  that  clear  to  the  'midship  house 
I  heard  the  dragging  age-lag  of  his  feet.  Then  that  ceased, 
and  that  was  all. 

I  repeat.  That  was  all.  Never  a  sound  came  from  for 
'ard.  I  held  my  watch  till  daylight.  I  held  it  till  Mar 
garet  came  on  deck  with  her  cheery  * '  What  ho  of  the  night, 
brave  mariner?"  I  held  the  next  watch  (which  should 
have  been  the  mate's)  till  midday,  eating  both  breakfast 
and  lunch  behind  the  sheltering  jiggermast.  And  I  held 


320         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

all  afternoon,  and  through  both  dog  watches,  my  dinner 
served  likewise  on  the  deck. 

And  that  was  all.  Nothing  happened.  The  galley  stove 
smoked  three  times,  advertising  the  cooking  of  three  meals. 
Shorty  made  faces  at  me  as  usual  across  the  rim  of  the 
for'ard  house.  The  Maltese  Cockney  caught  an  albatross.. 
There  was  some  excitement  when  Tony  the  Greek  hooked 
a  shark  off  the  jibboom  so  big  that  half  a  dozen  tailed  on 
to  the  line  and  failed  to  land  it.  But  I  caught  no  glimpse 
of  Mr.  Pike  nor  of  the  renegade  Sidney  Waltham. 

In  short,  it  was  a  lazy,  quiet  day  of  sunshine  and  gentle 
breeze.  There  was  no  inkling  to  what  had  happened  to 
the  mate.  Was  he  a  prisoner?  Was  he  already  overside? 
Why  were  there  no  shots?  He  had  his  big  automatic.  It 
is  inconceivable  that  he  did  not  use  it  at  least  once.  Mar 
garet  and  I  discussed  the  affair  till  we  were  well  a-weary, 
but  reached  no  conclusion. 

She  is  a  true  daughter  of  the  race.  At  the  end  of  the 
second  dog  watch,  armed  with  her  father's  revolver,  she 
insisted  on  standing  the  first  watch  of  the  night.  I  com 
promised  with  the  inevitable  by  having  Wada  make  up  my 
bed  on  the  deck  in  the  shelter  of  the  cabin  skylight,  just 
for'ard  of  the  jiggermast.  Henry,  the  two  sailmakers  and 
the  steward,  variously  equipped  with  knives  and  clubs, 
were  stationed  along  the  break  of  the  poop. 

And  right  here  I  wish  to  pass  my  first  criticism  on  mod 
ern  mutiny.  On  ships  like  the  Elsinore  there  are  not 
enough  weapons  to  go  around.  The  only  firearms  now  aft 
are  Captain  West's  thirty-eight  Colt  revolver  and  my 
twenty-two  automatic  Winchester.  The  old  steward,  with 
a  penchant  for  hacking  and  chopping,  has  his  long  knife 
and  a  butcher's  cleaver.  Henry,  in  addition  to  his  sheath 
knife,  has  a  short  bar  of  iron.  Louis,  despite  a  most 
sanguinary  array  of  butcher  knives  and  a  big  poker,  pins 
his  cook's  faith  on  hot  water,  and  sees  to  it  that  two 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         321 

kettles  are  always  piping  on  top  the  cabin  stove.  Buck 
wheat,  who,  on  account  of  his  wound,  is  getting  all  night 
in  for  a  couple  of  nights,  cherishes  a  hatchet. 

The  rest  of  our  retainers  have  knives  and  clubs,  although 
Yatsuda,  the  first  sailmaker,  carries  a  hand  axe,  and  Uchino, 
the  second  sailmaker,  sleeping  or  waking,  never  parts  from 
a  claw  hammer.  Tom  Spink  has  a  harpoon.  Wada,  how 
ever,  is  the  genius.  By  means  of  the  cabin  stove  he  has 
made  a  sharp  pike  point  of  iron  and  fitted  it  to  a  pole. 
To-morrow  he  intends  to  make  more  for  the  other  men. 

It  is  rather  shuddery,  however,  to  speculate  on  the  ter 
rible  assortment  of  cutting,  gouging,  jabbing  and  slashing 
weapons  with  which  the  mutineers  are  able  to  equip  them 
selves  from  the  carpenter  shop.  If  it  ever  comes  to  an 
assault  on  the  poop,  there  will  be  a  weird  mess  of  wounds 
for  the  survivors  to  dress.  For  that  matter,  master  as  I 
am  of  my  little  rifle,  no  man  could  gain  the  poay  in  the 
daytime.  Of  course,  if  rush  they  witl,  they  will  rush  us 
in  the  night,  when  my  rifle  will  be  worthless.  Then  it 
will  be  blow  for  blow,  hand  to  hand,  and  the  strongest 
pates  and  arms  will  win. 

But  no.  I  have  just  bethought  me.  We  shall  be  ready 
for  any  night  rush.  I'll  take  a  leaf  out  of  modern  war 
fare,  and  show  them  not  only  that  we  are  top  dog  (a  favor 
ite  phrase  of  the  mate),  but  why  we  are  top  dog.  It  is 
simple — night  illumination.  As  I  write  I  work  out  the 
idea — gasolene,  balls  of  oakum,  caps  and  gunpowder  from 
a  few  cartridges,  Roman  candles  and  flares,  blue,  red  and 
green,  shallow  metal  receptacles  to  carry  the  explosive  and 
inflammable  stuff ;  and  a  trigger-like  arrangement  by  which, 
pulling  on  a  string,  the  caps  are  exploded  in  the  gun 
powder  and  fire  set  to  the  gasolene-soaked  oakum  and  to 
the  flares  and  candles.  It  will  be  brain  as  well  as  brawn 
against  mere  brawn. 


322         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

I  have  worked  like  a  Trojan  all  day,  and  the  idea  is 
realized.  Margaret  helped  me  out  with  suggestions,  and 
Tom  Spink  did  the  sailorizing.  Over  our  head,  from  the 
jiggermast,  the  steel  stays  that  carry  the  three  jigger  try 
sails  descend  high  above  the  break  of  the  poop  and  across 
the  main  deck  to  the  mizzenmast.  A  light  line  has  been 
thrown  over  each  stay,  and  been  thrown  repeatedly  around 
so  as  to  form  an  unslipping  knot.  Tom  Spink  waited  till 
dark,  when  he  went  aloft  and  attached  loose  rings  of  stiff 
wire  around  the  stays  below  the  knots.  Also  he  bent  on 
hoisting-gear  and  connected  permanent  fastenings  with  the 
sliding  rings.  And  further,  between  rings  and  fastenings 
is  a  slack  of  fifty  feet  of  light  line. 

This  is  the  idea:  After  dark  each  night  we  shall  hoist 
our  three  metal  washbasins,  loaded  with  inflammables,  up 
to  the  stays.  The  arrangement  is  such  that  at  the  first 
alarm  of  a  rush,  by  yanking  a  cord  the  trigger  is  pulled 
that  ignites  the  powder,  and  the  very  same  pull  operates  a 
trip  device  that  lets  the  rings  slide  down  the  steel  stays.  Of 
course,  suspended  from  the  rings  are  the  illuminators,  and 
when  they  have  run  down  the  stays  fifty  feet  the  lines  will 
automatically  bring  them  to  rest.  Then  all  the  main  deck 
between  the  poop  and  the  mizzenmast  will  be  flooded  with 
light,  while  we  shall  be  in  comparative  darkness. 

Of  course,  each  morning  before  daylight  we  shall  lower 
all  this  apparatus  to  the  deck,  so  that  the  men  for'ard 
will  not  guess  what  we  have  up  our  sleeve,  or,  rather,  what 
we  have  up  on  the  trysail  stays.  Even  to-day  the  little  of 
our  gear  that  has  to  be  left  standing  aroused  their  curios 
ity.  Head  after  head  showed  over  the  edge  of  the  for'ard 
house  as  they  peeped  and  peered  and  tried  to  make  out 
what  we  were  up  to.  Why,  I  find  myself  almost  looking 
forward  to  an  attack  in  order  to  see  the  device  work. 


CHAPTER   XLV 

AND  what  has  happened  to  Mr.  Pike  remains  a  mystery. 
For  that  matter,  what  has  happened  to  the  second  mate? 
In  the  past  three  days  we  have  by  our  eyes  taken  the 
census  of  the  mutineers.  Every  man  has  been  seen  by  us 
with  the  sole  exception  of  Mr.  Mellaire,  or  Sidney  Wal- 
tham,  as  I  assume  I  must  correctly  name  him.  He  has  not 
appeared — does  not  appear,  and  we  can  only  speculate  and 
conjecture. 

In  the  past  three  days  various  interesting  things  have 
taken  place.  Margaret  stands  watch  and  watch  with  me, 
day  and  night,  the  clock  around,  for  there  is  no  one  of 
our  retainers  to  whom  we  can  entrust  the  responsibility 
of  a  watch.  Though  mutiny  obtains  and  we  are  besieged  in 
the  high  place,  the  Weather  is  so  mild  and  there  is  so  little 
call  on  our  men  that  they  have  grown  careless  and  sleep 
aft  of  the  charthouse  when  it  is  their  watch  on  deck.  Noth 
ing  ever  happens,  and,  like  true  sailors,  they  wax  fat  and 
lazy.  Even  have  I  found  Louis,  the  steward,  and  Wada 
guilty  of  cat-napping.  In  fact,  the  training-ship  boy, 
Henry,  is  the  only  one  who  has  never  lapsed. 

Oh,  yes,  and  I  gave  Tom  Spink  a  thrashing  yesterday. 
Since  the  disappearance  of  the  mate  he  had  had  little  faith 
in  me  and  had  been  showing  vague  signs  of  insolence  and 
insubordination.  Both  Margaret  and  I  had  noted  it  inde 
pendently.  Day  before  yesterday  we  talked  it  over. 

"He  is  a  good  sailor,  but  weak,"  she  said.  "If  we  let 
him  go  on  he  will  infect  the  rest." 

"Very  well,  I'll  take  him  in  hand,"  I  announced  valor- 
ously. 

323 


324         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"You  will  have  to,"  she  encouraged.  "Be  hard.  Be 
hard.  You  must  be  hard." 

Those  who  sit  in  the  high  place  must  be  hard,  yet  have 
I  discovered  that  it  is  hard  to  be  hard.  For  instance,  easy 
enough  was  it  to  drop  Steve  Roberts  as  he  was  in  the  act  of 
shooting  at  me.  Yet  it  is  most  difficult  to  be  hard  with  a 
chuckle-headed  retainer  like  Tom  Spink — especially  when 
he  continually  fails  by  a  shade  to  give  sufficient  provoca 
tion.  For  twenty-four  hours  after  my  talk  with  Margaret 
I  was  on  pins  and  needles  to  have  it  out  with  him,  yet, 
rather  than  have  had  it  out  with  him,  I  should  have  pre 
ferred  to  see  the  poop  rushed  by  the  gang  from  the  other 
side. 

Not  in  a  day  can  the  tyro  learn  to  employ  the  snarling 
immediacy  of  mastery  of  Mr.  Pike,  nor  the  reposeful  voice 
less  mastery  of  a  Captain  West.  Truly,  the  situation  was 
embarrassing.  I  was  not  trained  in  the  handling  of  men, 
and  Tom  Spink  knew  it  in  his  chuckle-headed  way.  Also, 
in  his  chuckle-headed  way,  he  was  dispirited  by  the  loss  of 
the  mate.  Fearing  the  mate,  nevertheless  he  had  depended 
on  the  mate  to  fetch  him  through  with  a  whole  skin,  or  at 
least  alive.  On  me  he  has  no  dependence.  What  chance 
had  the  gentleman  passenger  and  the  captain's  daughter 
against  the  gang  for  'ard  ?  So  he  must  have  reasoned,  and, 
so  reasoning,  becomes  despairing  and  desperate. 

After  Margaret  had  told  me  to  be  hard  I  watched  Tom 
Spink  with  an  eagle  eye,  and  he  must  have  sensed  my  atti 
tude,  for  he  carefully  forebore  from  overstepping,  while 
all  the  time  he  palpitated  just  on  the  edge  of  overstep 
ping.  Yes,  and  it  was  clear  that  Buckwheat  was  watching 
to  learn  the  outcome  of  this  veiled  refractoriness.  For  that 
matter,  the  situation  was  not  being  missed  by  our  keen- 
eyed  Asiatics,  and  I  know  that  I  caught  Louis  several  times 
verging  on  the  offense  of  offering  me  advice.  But  he  knew 
his  place  and  managed  to  keep  his  tongue  between  his  teeth. 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         325 

At  last,  yesterday,  while  I  held  the  watch,  Tom  Spink 
was  guilty  of  spitting  tobacco  juice  on  the  deck.  Now,  it 
must  be  understood  that  such  an  act  is  as  grave  an  offense 
of  the  sea  as  blasphemy  is  of  the  church. 

It  was  Margaret  who  came  to  where  I  was  stationed  by 
the  jiggermast  and  told  me  what  had  occurred ;  and  it  was 
she  who  took  my  rifle  and  relieved  me  so  that  I  could 
go  aft. 

There  was  the  offensive  spot,  and  there  was  Tom  Spink, 
his  cheek  bulging  with  a  quid. 

' '  Here,  you,  get  a  swab  and  mop  that  up, ' '  I  commanded 
in  my  harshest  manner. 

Tom  Spink  merely  rolled  his  quid  with  his  tongue  and 
regarded  me  with  sneering  thoughtfulness.  I  am  sure  he 
was  no  more  surprised  than  was  I  by  the  immediateness  of 
what  followed.  My  fist  went  out  like  an  arrow  from  a 
released  bow,  and  Tom  Spink  staggered  back,  tripped 
against  the  corner  of  the  tarpaulin-covered  sounding  ma 
chine,  and  sprawled  on  the  deck.  He  tried  to  make  a  fight 
of  it,  but  I  followed  him  up,  giving  him  no  chance  to  set 
himself  or  recover  from  the  surprise  of  my  first  onslaught. 

Now,  it  so  happens  that  not  since  I  was  a  boy  have  I 
struck  a  person  with  my  naked  fist,  and  I  candidly  admit 
that  I  enjoyed  the  trouncing  I  administered  to  poor  Tom 
Spink.  Yes,  and  in  the  rapid  play  about  the  deck  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Margaret.  She  had  stepped  out  of  the  shelter 
of  the  mast  and  was  looking  on  from  the  corner  of  the 
charthouse.  Yes,  and  more ;  she  was  looking  on  with  a 
cool,  measuring  eye. 

Oh,  it  was  all  very  grotesque,  to  be  sure.  But  then, 
mutiny  on  the  high  seas  in  the  year  nineteen  thirteen  is 
also  grotesque.  No  lists  here  between  mailed  knights  for 
a  lady's  favor,  but  merely  the  trouncing  of  a  chuckle-head 
for  spitting  on  the  deck  of  a  coal-carrier.  Nevertheless, 
the  fact  that  my  lady  looked  on  added  zest  to  my  enter- 


326         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

prise,  and,  doubtlessly,  speed  and  weight  to  my  blows,  and 
at  least  half  a  dozen  additional  clouts  to  the  unlucky  sailor. 

Yes,  man  is  strangely  and  wonderfully  made.  Now  that 
I  coolly  consider  the  matter,  I  realize  that  it  was  essen 
tially  the  same  spirit  with  which  I  enjoyed  beating  up  Tom 
Spink  that  I  have  in  the  past  enjoyed  contests  of  the  mind 
in  which  I  have  out-epigrammed  clever  opponents.  In  the 
one  case  one  proves  himself  top  dog  of  the  mind;  in  the 
other,  top  dog  of  the  muscle.  Whistler  and  Wilde  were 
just  as  much  intellectual  bullies  as  I  was  a  physical  bully 
yesterday  morning  when  I  punched  Tom  Spink  into  lying 
down  and  staying  down. 

And  my  knuckles  are  sore  and  swollen.  I  cease  writing 
for  a  moment  to  look  at  them  and  to  hope  that  they  will 
not  stay  permanently  enlarged. 

At  any  rate,  Tom  Spink  took  his  disciplining  and  prom 
ised  to  come  in  and  be  good. 

"Sir!"  I  thundered  at  him,  quite  in  Mr.  Pike's  most 
bloodthirsty  manner. 

"Sir,"  he  mumbled  with  bleeding  lips.  "Yes,  sir.  I'll 
mop  it  up,  sir.  Yes,  sir." 

I  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing  in  his  face,  the 
Whole  thing  was  so  ludicrous;  but  I  managed  to  look  my 
haughtiest,  and  sternest,  and  fiercest,  while  I  superintended 
the  deck  cleansing.  The  funniest  thing  about  the  affair 
was  that  I  must  have  knocked  Tom  Spink 's  quid  down 
his  throat,  for  he  was  gagging  and  hiccoughing  all  the 
time  he  mopped  and  scrubbed. 

The  atmosphere  aft  has  been  wonderfully  clear  ever 
since.  Tom  Spink  obeys  all  orders  on  the  jump,  and 
Buckwheat  jumps  with  equal  celerity.  As  for  the  five 
Asiatics,  I  feel  that  they  are  stouter  behind  me  now  that  I 
have  shown  masterfulness.  By  punching  a  man's  face  I 
verily  believe  I  have  doubled  our  united  strength.  And 
there  is  no  need  to  punch  any  of  the  rest.  The  Asiatics 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         327 

are  keen  and  willing.  Henry  is  a  true  cadet  of  the  breed, 
Buckwheat  will  follow  Tom  Spink's  lead,  and  Tom  Spink, 
a  proper  Anglo-Saxon  peasant,  will  lead  Buckwheat  all  the 
better  by  virtue  of  the  punching. 

Two  days  have  passed,  and  two  noteworthy  things  have 
happened.  The  men  seem  to  be  nearing  the  end  of  their 
mysterious  food  supply,  and  we  have  had  our  first  truce. 

I  have  noted,  through  the  glasses,  that  no  more  carcasses 
of  the  mollyhawks  they  are  now  catching  are  thrown  over 
board.  This  means  that  they  have  begun  to  eat  the  tough 
and  unsavory  creatures,  although  it  does  not  mean,  of 
course,  that  they  have  entirely  exhausted  their  other  stores. 

It  was  Margaret,  her  sailor's  eye  on  the  falling  ba 
rometer  and  on  the  ''making"  stuff  adrift  in  the  sky,  who 
called  my  attention  to  a  coming  blow. 

"As  soon  as  the  sea  rises/'  she  said,  "we'll  have  that 
loose  mainyard  and  all  the  rest  of  the  top-hamper  tumbling 
down  on  deck." 

So  it  was  that  I  raised  the  white  flag  for  a  parley.  Bert 
Rhine  and  Charles  Davis  came  abaft  the  'midship  house, 
and,  while  we  talked,  many  faces  peered  over  the  for'ard 
edge  of  the  house  and  many  forms  slouched  into  view  on 
the  deck  on  each  side  of  the  house. 

"Well,  getting  tired?"  was  Bert  Rhine's  insolent  greet 
ing.  ' '  Anything  we  can  do  for  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  there  is,"  I  answered  sharply.  "You  can  save 
your  heads  so  that  when  you  return  to  work  there  will  be 
enough  of  you  left  to  do  the  work. ' ' 

"If  you  are  making  threats "  Charles  Davis  began, 

but  was  silenced  by  a  glare  from  the  gangster. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Bert  Rhine  demanded.  "Cough  it 
off  your  chest." 

" It 's  for  your  own  good, ' '  was  my  reply.  "It  is  coming 
on  to  blow,  and  all  that  unfurled  canvas  aloft  will  bring 


328         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  yards  down  on  your  heads.  We're  safe  here,  aft. 
You  are  the  ones  who  will  run  risks,  and  it  is  up  to  you  to 
hustle  your  crowd  aloft  and  make  things  fast  and  ship 
shape.  ' ' 

"And  if  we  don't?"  the  gangster  sneered. 

"Why,  you'll  take  your  chances,  that  is  all,"  I  an 
swered  carelessly.  "I  just  want  to  call  your  attention  to 
the  fact  that  one  of  those  steel  yards,  end-on,  will  go 
through  the  roof  of  your  forecastle  as  if  it  were  so  much 
eggshell. ' ' 

Bert  Rhine  looked  to  Charles  Davis  for  verification,  and 
the  latter  nodded. 

"We'll  talk  it  over  first,"  the  gangster  announced. 

"And  I'll  give  you  ten  minutes,"  I  returned.  "If  at 
the  end  of  ten  minutes  you've  not  started  taking  in,  it 
will  be  too  late.  I  shall  put  a  bullet  into  any  man  who 
shows  himself." 

"All  right,  we'll  talk  it  over." 

As  they  started  to  go  back,  I  called : 

"One  moment." 

They  stopped  and  turned  about. 

"What  have  you  done  to  Mr.  Pike?"  I  asked. 

Even  the  impassive  Bert  Rhine  could  not  quite  conceal 
his  surprise. 

"An'  what  have  you  done  with  Mr.  Mellaire?"  he  re 
torted.  "You  tell  us,  an'  we'll  tell  you." 

I  am  confident  of  the  genuineness  of  his  surprise.  Evi 
dently  the  mutineers  have  been  believing  us  guilty  of  the 
disappearance  of  the  second  mate,  just  as  we  have  been 
believing  them  guilty  of  the  disappearance  of  the  first 
mate.  The  more  I  dwell  upon  it  the  more  it  seems  the 
proposition  of  the  Kilkenny  cats,  a  case  of  mutual  destruc 
tion  on  the  part  of  the  two  mates. 

"Another  thing,"  I  said  quickly.  "Where  do  you  get 
your  food?" 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         329 

Bert  Rhine  laughed  one  of  his  silent  laughs;  Charles 
Davis  assumed  an  expression  of  mysteriousness  and  superi 
ority  ;  and  Shorty,  leaping  into  view  from  the  corner  of  the 
house,  danced  a  jig  of  triumph. 

I  drew  out  my  watch. 

"Remember/7  I  said,  "you've  ten  minutes  in  which  to 
make  a  start.'' 

They  turned  and  went  for'ard,  and,  hefore  the  ten 
minutes  were  up,  all  hands  were  aloft  and  stowing  canvas. 
All  this  time  the  wind,  out  of  the  northwest,  was  breezing 
up.  The  old  familiar  harp  chords  of  a  rising  gale  were 
strumming  along  the  rigging,  and  the  men,  I  verily  believe 
from  lack  of  practice,  were  particularly  slow  at  their  work. 

"It  would  be  better  if  the  upper  and  lower  topsails  are 
set  so  that  we  can  heave  to, ' '  Margaret  suggested.  : '  They 
will  steady  her  and  make  it  more  comfortable  for  us." 

I  seized  the  idea  and  improved  upon  it. 

"Better  set  the  upper  and  lower  topsails  so  that  we  can 
handle  the  ship,"  I  called  to  the  gangster,  who  was  order 
ing  the  men  about,  quite  like  a  mate,  from  the  top  of  the 
'midship  house. 

He  considered  the  idea,  and  then  gave  the  proper  orders, 
although  it  was  the  Maltese  Cockney,  with  Nancy  and  Sun 
dry  Buyers  under  him,  who  carried  the  orders  out. 

I  ordered  Tom  Spink  to  the  long-idle  wheel,  and  gave 
him  the  course,  which  was  due  east  by  the  steering  com 
pass.  This  put  the  wind  on  our  port  quarter,  so  that  the 
Elsinore  began  to  move  through  the  water  before  a  fair 
breeze.  And  due  east,  less  than  a  thousand  miles  away, 
lay  the  coast  of  South  America  and  the  port  of  Valparaiso. 

Strange  to  say,  none  of  our  mutineers  objected  to  this, 
and  after  dark,  as  we  tore  along  before  a  full-sized  gale,  I 
sent  my  own  men  up  on  top  the  charthouse  to  take  the 
gaskets  off  the  spanker.  This  was  the  only  sail  we  could 
set  and  trim  and  in  every  way  control.  It  is  true  the 


330         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOBE 

mizzen  braces  were  still  rigged  aft  to  the  poop  according 
to  Horn  practice.  But,  while  we  could  thus  trim  the  miz 
zen  yards,  the  sails  themselves,  in  setting  or  furling,  were 
in  the  hands  of  the  for'ard  crowd. 

Margaret,  beside  me  in  the  darkness  at  the  break  of  the 
poop,  put  her  hand  in  mine  with  a  warm  pressure,  as  both 
our  tiny  watches  swayed  up  the  spanker  and  as  both  of  us 
held  our  breaths  in  an  effort  to  feel  the  added  draw  in  the 
Elsinore's  speed. 

"I  never  wanted  to  marry  a  sailor,"  she  said.  ''And  I 
thought  I  was  safe  in  the  hands  of  a  landsman  like  you. 
And  yet  here  you  are,  with  all  the  stuff  of  the  sea  in  you, 
running  down  your  easting  for  port.  Next  thing  I  sup 
pose  I'll  see  you  out  with  a  sextant,  shooting  the  sun  or 
making  star  observations." 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

FOUR  more  days  have  passed ;  the  gale  has  blown  itself 
out;  we  are  not  more  than  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles 
off  Valparaiso ;  and  the  Elsinore,  this  time  due  to  me  and 
my  own  stubbornness,  is  rolling  in  the  wind  and  heading 
nowhere  in  a  light  breeze  at  the  rate  of  nothing  but  drift 
age  per  hour. 

In  the  height  of  the  gusts,  in  the  three  days  and  nights 
of  the  gale,  we  logged  as  much  as  eight,  and  even  nine, 
knots.  What  bothered  me  was  the  acquiescence  of  the  mu 
tineers  in  my  program.  They  were  sensible  enough  in  the 
simple  matter  of  geography  to  know  what  I  was  doing. 
They  had  control  of  the  sails,  and  yet  they  permitted  me 
to  run  for  the  South  American  coast. 

More  than  that,  as  the  gale  eased  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  day,  they  actually  went  aloft,  set  topgallant  sails, 
royals,  and  skysails,  and  trimmed  the  yards  to  the  quarter 
ing  breeze.  This  was  too  much  for  the  Saxon  streak  in 
me,  whereupon  I  wore  the  Elsinore  about  before  the  wind, 
fetched  her  up  upon  it,  and  lashed  the  wheel.  Margaret 
and  I  are  agreed  in  the  hypothesis  that  their  plan  is  to 
get  inshore  until  land  is  sighted,  at  which  time  they  will 
desert  in  the  boats. 

'  *  But  we  don 't  want  them  to  desert, ' '  she  proclaims  with 
flashing  eyes.  "We  are  bound  for  Seattle.  They  must 
return  to  duty.  They've  got  to  soon,  for  they  are  begin 
ning  to  starve. ' ' 

' '  There  isn  't  a  navigator  aft, ' '  I  oppose. 

Promptly  she  withers  me  with  her  scorn. 

"You,  a  master  of  books,  by  all  the  sea  blood  in  your 

331 


332         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

body  should  be  able  to  pick  up  the  theoretics  of  navigation 
while  I  snap  my  fingers.  Furthermore,  remember  that  I 
can  supply  the  seamanship.  Why,  any  squarehead  peas: 
ant,  in  a  six  months'  cramming  course  at  any  seaport  navi 
gation  school,  can  pass  the  examiners  for  his  navigator's 
papers.  That  means  six  hours  for  you.  And  less.  If  you 
can't,  after  an  hour's  reading  and  an  hour's  practice  with 
the  sextant,  take  a  latitude  observation  and  work  it  out, 
I'll  do  it  for  you." 

* '  You  mean  you  know  ? ' ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

' '  I  mean,  from  the  little  I  know,  that  I  know  I  can  learn 
to  know  a  meridian  sight  and  the  working  out  of  it.  I 
mean  that  I  can  learn  to  know  inside  of  two  hours. ' ' 

Strange  to  say,  the  gale,  after  easing  to  a  mild  breeze, 
recrudesced  in  a  sort  of  after  clap.  With  sails  untrimmed 
and  flapping,  the  consequent  smashing,  crashing,  and  rend 
ing  of  our  gear  can  be  imagined.  It  brought  out  in  alarm 
every  man  for'ard. 

"Trim  the  yards !"  I  yelled  at  Bert  Rhine,  who,  backed 
for  counsel  by  Charles  Davis  and  the  Maltese  Cockney, 
actually  came  directly  beneath  me  on  the  main  deck  in 
order  to  hear  above  the  commotion  aloft. 

"Keep  a-runnin',  an'  you  won't  have  to  trim,"  the  gang 
ster  shouted  up  to  me. 

"Want  to  make  land,  eh?"  I  girded  down  at  him. 
"Getting  hungry,  eh?  Well,  you  Won't  make  land  or 
anything  else  in  a  thousand  years  once  you  get  all  your 
top-hamper  piled  down  on  deck." 

I  have  forgotten  to  state  that  this  occurred  at  midday 
yesterday. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  if  we  trim?"  Charles  Davis 
broke  in. 

"Run  off  shore,"  I  replied,  "and  get  your  gang  out  in 
deep  sea  where  it  will  be  starved  back  to  duty." 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         333 

"We'll  furl,  an'  let  you  heave  to,"  the  gangster  pro 
posed. 

I  shook  my  head  and  held  up  my  rifle.  "You'll  have  to 
go  aloft  to  do  it,  and  the  first  man  that  gets  into  the 
shrouds  will  get  his." 

"Then  she  can  go  to  hell  for  all  we  care,"  he  said,  with 
emphatic  collusiveness. 

And  just  then  the  fore-topgallant  yard  carried  away — 
luckily  as  the  bow  was  down-pitched  into  a  trough  of  sea 
— and  when  the  slow,  confused,  and  tangled  descent  was  ac 
complished  the  big  stick  lay  across  the  wreck  of  both  bul 
warks  and  of  that  portion  of  the  bridge  between  the  fore 
mast  and  the  forecastle  head. 

Bert  Rhine  heard,  but  could  not  see,  the  damage  wrought. 
He  looked  up  at  me  challengingly,  and  sneered : 

"Want  some  more  to  come  down?" 

It  could  not  have  happened  more  apropos.  The  port 
brace,  and  immediately  afterward,  the  starboard  brace, 
of  the  crojack  yard  carried  away.  This  was  the  big,  lowest 
spar  on  the  mizzen,  and  as  the  huge  thing  of  steel  swung 
wildly  back  and  forth  the  gangster  and  his  followers  turned 
and  crouched  as  they  looked  up  to  see.  Next,  the  goose 
neck  of  the  truss,  on  which  it  pivoted,  smashed  away.  Im 
mediately  the  lifts  and  lower  topsail  sheets  parted,  and, 
with  a  fore-and-aft  pitch  of  the  ship,  the  spar  up-ended 
and  crashed  to  the  deck  upon  Number  Three  hatch,  de 
stroying  that  section  of  the  bridge  in  its  fall. 

All  this  was  new  to  the  gangster — as  it  was  to  me — but 
Charles  Davis  and  the  Maltese  Cockney  thoroughly  appre 
hended  the  situation. 

' '  Stand  out  from  under ! "  I  yelled  sardonically ;  and  the 
three  of  them  cowered  and  shrank  away  as  their  eyes  sought 
aloft  for  what  new  spar  was  thundering  down  upon  them. 

The  lower  topsail,  its  sheets  parted  by  the  fall  of  the 
crojack  yard,  was  tearing  out  of  the  bolt  ropes  and  ribbon- 


334         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

ing  away  to  leeward  and  making  such  an  uproar  that  they 
might  well  expect  its  yard  to  carry  away.  Since  this 
wreckage  of  our  beautiful  gear  was  all  new  to  me,  I  was 
quite  prepared  to  see  the  thing  happen. 

The  gangster  leader,  no  sailor,  but,  after  months  at  sea, 
intelligent  enough  and  nervously  strong  enough  to  appre 
ciate  the  danger,  turned  his  head  and  looked  up  at  me. 
And  I  will  do  him  the  credit  to  say  that  he  took  his  time 
while  all  our  world  of  gear  aloft  seemed  smashing  to  de 
struction. 

* '  I  guess  we  '11  trim  yards, ' '  he  capitulated. 

"Better  get  the  skysails  and  royals  off,"  Margaret  said 
in  my  ear. 

' '  While  you  're  about  it,  get  in  the  skysails  and  royals ! ' ' 
I  shouted  down.  "And  make  a  decent  job  of  the  gasket- 
ing!" 

Both  Charles  Davis  and  the  Maltese  Cockney  advertised 
their  relief  in  their  faces  as  they  heard  my  words,  and,  at 
a  nod  from  the  gangster,  as  they  started  for'ard  on  the 
run  to  put  the  orders  into  effect. 

Never,  in  the  whole  voyage,  did  our  crew  spring  to  it  in 
more  lively  fashion.  And  lively  fashion  was  needed  to 
save  our  gear.  As  it  was,  they  cut  away  the  remnants  of 
the  mizzen  lower  topsail  with  their  sheath  knives  and  they 
lost  the  main  skysail  out  of  its  boltropes. 

The  first  infraction  of  our  agreement  was  on  the  main 
lower  topsail.  This  they  attempted  to  furl.  The  carrying 
away  of  the  crojack  and  the  blowing  away  of  the  mizzen 
lower  topsail  gave  me  freedom  to  see  and  aim,  and  when 
the  tiny  messengers  from  my  rifle  began  to  spat  through 
the  canvas  and  to  sput  against  the  steel  of  the  yard,  the 
men  strung  along  it  desisted  from  passing  the  gaskets.  I 
waved  my  will  to  Bert  Rhine,  who  acknowledged  me  and 
ordered  the  sail  set  again  and  the  yard  trimmed. 

"What  is  the  use  of  running  offshore?"  I  said  to  Mar- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         335 

garet,  when  the  kites  were  snugged  down  and  all  yards 
trimmed  on  the  wind.  ' '  Three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  off 
the  land  is  as  good  as  thirty-five  hundred,  so  far  as  starva 
tion  is  concerned." 

So,  instead  of  making  speed  through  the  water  toward 
deep  sea,  I  hove  the  Elsinore  to  on  the  starboard  tack  with 
no  more  than  leeway  driftage  to  the  west  and  south. 

But  our  gallant  mutineers  had  their  will  of  us  that  very 
night.  In  the  darkness  we  could  hear  the  work  aloft  going 
on  as  yards  were  run  down,  sheets  let  go,  and  sails  clewed 
up  and  gasketed.  I  did  try  a  few  random  shots,  and  all 
my  reward  was  to  hear  the  whine  and  creak  of  ropes 
through  sheaves  and  to  receive  an  equally  random  fire  of 
revolver  shots. 

It  is  a  most  curious  situation.  "We  of  the  high  place  are 
masters  of  the  steering  of  the  Elsinore,  while  those  for  'ard 
are  masters  of  the  motor  power.  The  only  sail  that  is 
wholly  ours  is  the  spanker.  They  control  absolutely — 
sheets,  halyards,  clewlines,  buntlines,  braces,  and  down- 
hauls — every  sail  on  the  fore  and  main.  We  control  the 
braces  on  the  mizzen,  although  they  control  the  canvas  on 
the  mizzen.  For  that  matter,  Margaret  and  I  fail  to  com 
prehend  why  they  do  not  go  aloft  any  dark  night  and  sever 
the  mizzen  braces  at  the  yardends.  All  that  prevents  this, 
we  are  decided,  is  laziness.  For  if  they  did  sever  the 
braces  that  lead  aft  into  our  hands  they  would  be  com 
pelled  to  rig  new  braces  for 'ard  in  some  fashion,  else,  in 
the  rolling,  would  the  mizzenmast  be  stripped  of  every 
spar. 

And  still,  the  mutiny  we  are  enduring  is  ridiculous  and 
grotesque.  There  was  never  a  mutiny  like  it.  It  violates 
all  standards  and  precedents.  In  the  old  classic  mutinies, 
long  ere  this,  attacking  like  tigers- the  seamen  should  have 
swarmed  over  the  poop  and  killed  most  of  us  or  been  most 
of  them  killed. 


336         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Wherefore  I  sneer  at  our  gallant  mutineers,  and  recom 
mend  trained  nurses  for  them,  quite  in  the  manner  of  Mr. 
Pike.  But  Margaret  shakes  her  head  and  insists  that 
human  nature  is  human  nature,  and  that  under  similar 
circumstances  human  nature  will  express  itself  similarly. 
In  short,  she  points  to  the  number  of  deaths  that  have 
already  occurred,  and  declares  that  on  some  dark  night, 
sooner  or  later,  whenever  the  pinch  of  hunger  sufficiently 
sharpens,  we  shall  see  our  rascals  storming  aft. 

And  in  the  meantime,  except  for  the  tenseness  of  it,  and 
for  the  incessant  watchfulness  which  Margaret  and  I  alone 
maintain,  it  is  more  like  a  mild  adventure,  more  like  a 
page  out  of  some  book  of  romance  which  ends  happily. 

It  is  surely  romance,  watch  and  watch,  for  a  man  and  a 
woman,  who  love,  to  relieve  each  other's  watches.  Each 
such  relief  is  a  love  passage  and  unforgettable.  Never  was 
there  wooing  like  it — the  muttered  surmises  of  wind  and 
weather,  the  whispered  councils,  the  kissed  commands  in 
palms  of  hands,  the  dared  contacts  of  the  dark. 

Oh,  truly,  I  have  often,  since  this  voyage  began,  told  the 
books  to  go  hang.  And  yet  the  books  are  at  the  back  of 
the  race  life  of  me.  I  am  what  I  am  out  of  ten  thousand 
generations  of  my  kind.  Of  that  there  is  no  discussion. 
And  yet  my  midnight  philosophy  stands  the  test  of  my 
breed.  I  must  have  selected  my  books  out  of  the  ten  thou 
sand  generations  that  compose  me.  I  have  killed  a  man — 
Steve  Roberts.  As  a  perishing  blond  without  an  alphabet, 
I  should  have  done  this  unwaveringly.  As  a  perishing 
blond  with  an  alphabet,  plus  the  content  in  my  brain  of 
the  philosophizing  of  all  philosophers,  I  have  killed  this 
same  man  with  the  same  unwaveringness.  Culture  has  not 
emasculated  me.  I  am  quite  unaffected.  It  was  in  the 
day's  work,  and  my  kind  has  always  been  day  workers, 
doing  the  day's  work,  whatever  it  might  be,  in  high  ad 
venture  or  dull  ploddingness,  and  always  doing  it. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         337 

Never  would  I  ask  to  set  back  the  dial  of  time  or  event. 
I  would  kill  Steve  Roberts  again,  under  the  same  circum 
stances,  as  a  matter  of  course.  "When  I  say  I  am  unaf 
fected  by  this  happening,  I  do  not  quite  mean  it.  I  am 
affected.  I  am  aware  that  the  spirit  of  me  is  informed 
with  a  sober  elation  of  efficiency.  I  have  done  something 
that  had  to  be  done,  as  any  man  will  do  what  has  to  be 
done  in  the  course  of  the  day's  work. 

Yes,  I  am  a  perishing  blond,  and  a  man,  and  I  sit  in  the 
high  place  and  bend  the  stupid  ones  to  my  will ;  and  I  am 
a  lover,  loving  a  royal  woman  of  my  own  perishing  breed, 
and  together  we  occupy,  and  shall  occupy,  the  high  place 
of  government  and  command  until  our  kind  perishes  from 
the  earth. 


CHAPTER   XLYII 

MARGARET  was  right.  The  mutiny  is  not  violating  stand 
ards  and  precedents.  We  have  had  our  hands  full  for 
days  and  nights.  Ditman  Olansen,  the  crank-eyed  Ber 
serker,  has  been  killed  by  Wada,  and  the  training-ship  boy, 
the  one  lone  cadet  of  our  breed,  has  gone  overside  with  the 
regulation  sack  of  coal  at  his  feet.  The  poop  has  been 
rushed.  My  illuminating  invention  has  proved  a  success. 
The  men  are  getting  hungry,  and  we  still  sit  in  command 
in  the  high  place. 

First  of  all,  the  attack  on  the  poop,  two  nights  ago,  in 
Margaret's  watch.  No;  first  I  have  made  another  inven 
tion.  Assisted  by  the  old  steward,  who  knows,  as  a  Chi 
nese  ought,  a  deal  about  fireworks,  and  getting  my  materi 
als  from  our  signal  rockets  and  Roman  candles,  I  manu 
factured  half  a  dozen  bombs.  I  don't  really  think  they 
are  very  deadly,  and  I  know  our  extemporized  fuses  are 
slower  than  our  voyage  is  at  the  present  time;  but  never 
theless  the  bombs  have  served  the  purpose,  as  you  shall  see. 

And  now  to  the  attempt  to  rush  the  poop.  It  was  in 
Margaret's  watch,  from  midnight  till  four  in  the  morning, 
when  the  attack  was  made.  Sleeping  on  the  deck  by  the 
cabin  skylight,  I  was  very  close  to  her  when  her  revolver 
went  off,  and  continued  to  go  off. 

My  first  spring  was  to  the  tripping  lines  on  my  illumi 
nators.  The  igniting  and  releasing  devices  worked  cleverly. 
I  pulled  two  of  the  tripping  lines,  and  two  of  the  con 
traptions  exploded  into  light  and  noise  and  at  the  same 
time  ran  automatically  down  the  jigger  trysail  stays,  and 
automatically  fetched  up  at  the  ends  of  their  lines.  The 

338 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         339 

illumination  was  instantaneous  and  gorgeous.  Henry,  the 
two  sailmakers,  and  the  steward — at  least  three  of  them 
awakened  from  sound  sleep,  I  am  sure — ran  to  join  us 
along  the  break  of  the  poop.  All  the  advantage  lay  with 
us,  for  we  were  in  the  dark,  while  our  foes  were  outlined 
against  the  light  behind  them. 

But  such  light!  The  powder  crackled,  fizzed  and  splut 
tered  and  spilled  out  the  excess  of  gasolene  from  the  flam 
ing  oakum  balls  so  that  streams  of  fire  dripped  down  on 
the  main  deck  beneath.  And  the  stuff  of  the  signal  flares 
dripped  red  light  and  blue  and  green. 

There  was  not  much  of  a  fight,  for  the  mutineers  were 
shocked  by  our  fireworks.  Margaret  fired  her  revolver 
haphazardly,  while  I  held  my  rifle  for  any  that  gained  the 
poop.  But  the  attack  faded  away  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come.  I  did  see  Margaret  overshoot  some  man,  scaling  the 
poop  from  the  port  rail,  and  the  next  moment  I  saw  Wada, 
charging  like  a  buffalo,  jab  him  in  the  chest  with  the  spear 
he  had  made  and  thrust  the  boarder  back  and  down. 

That  was  all.  The  rest  retreated  for'ard  on  the  dead 
run,  while  the  three  trysails,  furled  at  the  foot  of  the  stays 
next  to  the  mizzen  and  set  on  fire  by  the  dripping  gasolene, 
went  up  in  flame  and  burned  entirely  away  and  out  with 
out  setting  the  rest  of  the  ship  on  fire.  That  is  one  of  the 
virtues  of  a  ship  steel-masted  and  steel-stayed. 

And  on  the  deck  beneath  us,  crumpled,  twisted,  face  hid 
den  so  that  we  could  not  identify  him,  lay  the  man  whom 
Wada  had  speared. 

And  now  I  come  to  a  phase  of  adventure  that  is  new  to 
me.  I  have  never  found  it  in  the  books.  In  short,  it  is 
carelessness  coupled  with  laziness,  or  vice  versa.  I  had 
used  two  of  my  illuminators.  Only  one  remained.  An  hour 
later,  convinced  of  the  movement  aft  of  men  along  the 
deck,  I  let  go  the  third  and  last  and  with  its  brightness 
sent  them  scurrying  for'ard.  Whether  they  were  attack- 


340         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

ing  the  poop  tentatively  to  learn  whether  or  not  I  had 
exhausted  my  illuminators,  or  whether  or  not  they  were 
trying  to  rescue  Ditman  Olansen,  we  shall  never  know. 
The  point  is:  they  did  come  aft;  they  were  compelled  to 
retreat  by  my  illuminator ;  and  it  was  my  last  illuminator. 
And  yet  I  did  not  start  in,  there  and  then,  to  manufacture 
fresh  ones.  This  was  carelessness.  It  was  laziness.  And 
I  hazarded  our  lives,  perhaps,  if  you  please,  on  a  psycho 
logical  guess  that  I  had  convinced  our  mutineers  that  we 
had  an  inexhaustible  stock  of  illuminators  in  reserve. 

The  rest  of  Margaret's  watch,  which  I  shared  with  her, 
was  undisturbed.  At  four  I  insisted  that  she  go  below  and 
turn  in,  but  she  compromised  by  taking  my  own  bed  behind 
the  skylight. 

At  break  of  day  I  was  able  to  make  out  the  body,  still 
lying  as  last  I  had  seen  it.  At  seven  o  'clock,  before  break 
fast  and  while  Margaret  still  slept,  I  sent  the  two  boys, 
Henry  and  Buckwheat,  down  to  the  body.  I  stood  above 
them,  at  the  rail,  rifle  in  hand  and  ready.  But  from  for- 
'ard  came  no  signs  of  life;  and  the  lads,  between  them, 
rolled  the  crank-eyed  Norwegian  over  so  that  we  could 
recognize  him,  carried  him  to  the  rail,  and  shoved  him 
stiffly  across  and  into  the  sea.  Wada's  spear- thrust  had 
gone  clear  through  him. 

But  before  twenty-four  hours  were  up  the  mutineers 
evened  the  score  handsomely.  They  more  than  evened  it, 
for  we  are  so  few  that  we  cannot  so  well  afford  the  loss  of 
one  as  they  can.  To  begin  with — and  a  thing  I  had  antici 
pated  and  for  which  I  had  prepared  my  bombs — while 
Margaret  and  I  ate  a  deck  breakfast  in  the  shelter  of  the 
jiggermast,  a  number  of  the  men  sneaked  aft  and  got  under 
the  overhang  of  the  poop.  Buckwheat  saw  them  coming 
and  yelled  the  alarm,  but  it  was  too  late.  There  was  no 
direct  way  to  get  them  out.  The  moment  I  put  my  head 
over  the  rail  to  fire  at  them  I  knew  they  would  fire  up  at 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         341 

me  with  all  the  advantage  in  their  favor.  They  were  hid 
den.  I  had  to  expose  myself. 

Two  steel  doors,  tight-fastened  and  calked  against  the 
Cape  Horn  seas,  opened  under  the  overhang  of  the  poop 
from  the  cabin  onto  the  main  deck.  These  doors  the  men 
proceeded  to  attack  with  sledge  hammers,  while  the  rest 
of  the  gang,  sheltered  by  the  'midship  house,  showed  that  it 
stood  ready  for  the  rush  when  the  doors  were  battered 
down. 

Inside,  the  steward  guarded  one  door  with  his  hacking 
knife,  while  with  his  spear  Wada  guarded  the  other  door. 
Nor,  while  I  had  dispatched  them  to  this  duty,  was  I  idle. 
Behind  the  jiggermast  I  lighted  the  fuse  of  one  of  my 
extemporized  bombs.  When  it  was  sputtering  nicely  I  ran 
across  the  poop  to  the  break  and  dropped  the  bomb  to  the 
main  deck  beneath,  at  the  same  time  making  an  effort  to 
toss  it  in  under  the  overhang  where  the  men  battered  at 
the  port  door.  But  this  effort  was  distracted  and  made 
futile  by  a  popping  of  several  revolver  shots  from  the  gang 
ways  amidships.  One  is  jumpy  when  soft-nosed  bullets 
putt-putt  around  him.  As  a  result,  the  bomb  rolled  about 
on  the  open  deck. 

Nevertheless,  the  illuminators  had  earned  the  respect  of 
the  mutineers  for  my  fireworks.  The  sputtering  and  fizz 
ling  of  the  fuse  was  too  much  for  them,  and  from  under  the 
poop  they  ran  for'ard  like  so  many  scuttling  rabbits.  I 
know  I  could  have  got  a  couple  with  my  rifle  had  I  not 
been  occupied  with  lighting  the  fuse  of  a  second  bomb. 
Margaret  managed  three  wild  shots  with  her  revolver,  and 
the  poop  was  immediately  peppered  by  a  scattering  re 
volver  fire  from  for'ard. 

Being  provident  (and  lazy,  for  I  have  learned  that  it 
takes  time  and  labor  to  manufacture  home-made  bombs), 
I  pinched  off  the  live  end  of  the  fuse  in  my  hand.  But  the 
fuse  of  the  first  bomb,  rolling  about  on  the  main  deck, 


342         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

merely  fizzled  on;  and  as  I  waited  I  resolved  to  shorten 
my  remaining  fuses.  Any  of  the  men  who  fled,  had  he  had 
the  courage,  could  have  pinched  off  the  fuse  or  tossed  the 
bomb  overboard,  or,  better  yet,  he  could  have  tossed  it  up 
amongst  us  on  the  poop. 

It  took  fully  five  minutes  for  that  blessed  fuse  to  burn 
its  slow  length,  and  when  the  bomb  did  go  off  it  was  a 
sad  disappointment.  I  swear  it  could  have  been  sat  upon 
with  nothing  more  than  a  jar  to  one's  nerves.  And  yet, 
in  so  far  as  the  intimidation  goes,  it  did  its  work.  The 
men  have  not  since  ventured  under  the  overhang  of  the 
poop. 

That  the  mutineers  were  getting  short  of  food  was  patent. 
The  Elsinore,  sailless,  drifted  about  that  morning,  the  sport 
of  wind  and  wave ;  and  the  gang  put  many  lines  overboard 
for  the  catching  of  mollyhawks  and  albatrosses.  Oh,  I 
worried  the  hungry  fishers  with  my  rifle.  No  man  could 
show  himself  for  'ard  without  having  a  bullet  whop  against 
the  ironwork  perilously  near  him.  And  still  they  caught 
birds — not,  however,  without  danger  to  themselves,  and  not 
without  numerous  losses  of  birds  due  to  my  rifle. 

Their  procedure  was  to  toss  their  hooks  and  bait  over 
the  rail  from  shelter  arid  slowly  to  pay  the  lines  out  as  the 
slight  windage  of  the  Elsinore's  hull,  spars,  and  rigging 
drifted  her  through  the  water.  When  a  bird  was  hooked 
they  hauled  in  the  line,  still  from  shelter,  till  it  was  along 
side.  This  was  the  ticklish  moment.  The  hook,  merely  a 
hollow  and  acute-angled  triangle  of  sheet  copper  floating 
on  a  piece  of  board  at  the  end  of  the  line,  held  the  bird  by 
pinching  its  curved  beak  into  the  acute  angle.  The  mo 
ment  the  line  slacked  the  bird  was  released.  So,  when 
alongside,  this  was  the  problem:  to  lift  the  bird  out  of 
the  water,  straight  up  the  side  of  the  ship,  without  once 
jamming  and  easing  and  slacking.  When  they  tried  to  do 
this  from  shelter,  invariably  they  lost  the  bird. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         343 

They  worked  out  a  method.  When  the  bird  was  along 
side  the  several  men  with  revolvers  turned  loose  on  me, 
while  one  man,  overhauling  and  keeping  the  line  taut, 
leaped  to  the  rail  and  quickly  hove  the  bird  up  and  over 
and  inboard.  I  know  this  long-distance  revolver  fire  seri 
ously  bothered  me.  One  cannot  help  jumping  when  death, 
in  the  form  of  a  piece  of  flying  lead,  hits  the  rail  beside 
him,  or  the  mast  over  his  head,  or  whines  away  in  a  ricochet 
from  the. steel  shrouds.  Nevertheless,  I  managed  with  my 
rifle  to  bother  the  exposed  men  on  the  rail  to  the  extent 
that  they  lost  one  hooked  bird  out  of  two.  And  twenty-six 
men  require  a  quantity  of  albatrosses  and  mollyhawks 
every  twenty-four  hours,  while  they  can  fish  only  in  the 
daylight. 

As  the  day  wore  along  I  improved  on  my  obstructive 
tactics.  When  the  Elsinore  was  up  in  the  eye  of  the  wind 
and  making  sternway,  I  found  that  by  putting  the  wheel 
sharply  over,  one  way  or  the  other,  I  could  swing  her  bow 
off.  Then,  when  she  had  paid  off  till  the  wind  was  abeam, 
by  reversing  the  wheel  hard  across  to  the  opposite  hard- 
over,  I  could  take  advantage  of  her  momentum  away  from 
the  wind  and  work  her  off  squarely  before  it.  This  made 
all  the  wood-floated  triangles  of  bird  snares  tow  aft  along 
her  sides. 

The  first  time  I  was  ready  for  them.  With  hooks  and 
sinkers  on  our  own  lines  aft  we  tossed  out,  grappled,  cap 
tured,  and  broke  off  nine  of  their  lines.  But  the  next  time, 
so  slow  is  the  movement  of  so  large  a  ship,  the  mutineers 
hauled  all  their  lines  safely  inboard  ere  they  towed  aft 
within  striking  distance  of  my  grapnels. 

Still  I  improved.  As  long  as  I  kept  the  Elsinore  before 
the  wind  they  could  not  fish.  I  experimented.  Once  be 
fore  it,  by  means  of  a  winged-out  spanker  coupled  with 
patient  and  careful  steering,  I  could  keep  her  before  it. 


344         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

This  I  did,  hour  by  hour  one  of  my  men  relieving  another 
at  the  wheel.  As  a  result,  all  fishing  ceased. 

Margaret  was  holding  the  first  dog  watch,  four  to  six. 
Henry  was  at  the  wheel  steering.  "Wada  and  Louis  were 
below  cooking  the  evening  meal  over  the  big  coal  stove  and 
the  oil  burners.  I  had  just  come  up  from  below  and  was 
standing  beside  the  sounding  machine,  not  half  a  dozen 
feet  from  Henry  at  the  wheel.  Some  obscure  sound  from 
the  ventilator  must  have  attracted  me,  for  I  was  gazing  at 
it  when  the  thing  happened. 

But  first,  the  ventilator.  This  is  a  steel  shaft  that  leads 
up  from  the  coal-carrying  bowels  of  the  ship  beneath  the 
lazarette  and  that  wins  to  the  outside  world  via  the  after- 
wall  of  the  charthouse.  In  fact,  it  occupies  the  hollow 
inside  of  the  double  walls  of  the  after-wall  of  the  chart- 
house.  Its  opening,  at  the  height  of  a  man's  head,  is 
screened  with  iron  bars  so  closely  set  that  no  mature-bodied 
rat  can  squeeze  between.  Also,  this  opening  commands  the 
wheel,  which  is  a  scant  fifteen  feet  away  and  directly  across 
the  booby  hatch.  Some  mutineer,  crawling  along  the  space 
between  the  coal  and  the  deck  of  the  lower  hold,  had 
climbed  the  ventilator  shaft  and  was  able  to  take  aim 
through  the  slits  between  the  bars. 

Practically  simultaneously,  I  saw  the  outrush  of  smoke 
and  heard  the  report.  I  heard  a  grunt  from  Henry,  and, 
turning  my  head,  saw  him  cling  to  the  spokes  and  turn 
the  wheel  half  a  revolution  as  he  sank  to  the  deck.  It 
must  have  been  a  lucky  shot.  The  boy  was  perforated 
through  the  heart,  or  very  near  to  the  heart — we  have  no 
time  for  post-mortems  on  the  Elsinore. 

Tom  Spink  and  the  second  sailmaker,  Uchino,  sprang  to 
Henry 's  side.  The  revolver  continued  to  go  off  through  the 
ventilator  slits,  and  the  bullets  thudded  into  the  front  of 
the  half  wheelhouse  all  about  them.  Fortunately,  they 
were  not  hit,  and  they  immediately  scrambled  out  of  range. 


THE    MUTINY   OF   THE   ELSINORE         345 

The  boy  quivered  for  the  space  of  a  few  seconds  and  ceased 
to  move ;  and  one  more  cadet  of  the  perishing  breed  per 
ished  as  he  did  his  day's  work  at  the  wheel  of  the  Elsinore, 
off  west  coast  of  South  America,  bound  from  Baltimore  to 
Seattle  with  a  cargo  of  coal. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

THE  situation  is  hopelessly  grotesque.  We  in  the  high 
place  command  the  food  of  the  Elsinore,  but  the  mutineers 
have  captured  her  steering  gear.  That  is  to  say,  they  have 
captured  it  without  coming  into  possession  of  it.  They 
cannot  steer,  neither  can  we.  The  poop,  which  is  the  high 
place,  is  ours.  The  wheel  is  on  the  poop,  yet  we  cannot 
touch  the  wheel.  From  that  slitted  opening  in  the  venti 
lator  shaft  they  are  able  to  shoot  down  any  man  who 
approaches  the  wheel.  And  with  that  steel  wall  of  the 
charthouse  as  a  shield,  they  laugh  at  us  as  from  a  conning 
tower. 

I  have  a  plan,  but  it  is  not  worth  while  putting  into 
execution  unless  its  need  becomes  imperative.  In  the  dark 
ness  of  night  it  would  be  an  easy  trick  to  disconnect  the 
steering  gear  from  the  short  tiller  on  the  rudder  head, 
and  then,  by  rerigging  the  preventer  tackles,  steer  from 
both  sides  of  the  poop  well  enough  for'ard  to  be  out  of 
the  range  of  the  ventilator. 

In  the  meantime,  in  this  fine  weather,  the  Elsinore  drifts 
as  she  lists,  or  as  the  windage  of  her  lists  and  the  sea  move 
ment  of  waves  lists.  And  she  can  well  drift.  Let  the 
mutineers  starve.  They  can  best  be  brought  to  their  senses 
through  their  stomachs. 

And  what  are  wits  for  if  not  for  use  ?  I  am  breaking  the 
men's  hungry  hearts.  It  is  great  fun  in  its  way.  The 
mollyhawks  and  albatrosses,  after  their  fashion,  have  fol 
lowed  the  Elsinore  up  out  of  their  own  latitudes.  This 
means  that  there  are  only  so  many  of  them  and  that  their 

346 


THE    MUTINY   OF   THE    ELSINORE         347 

numbers  are  not  recruited.  Syllogism:  major  premise,  a 
definite  and  limited  amount  of  bird  meat;  minor  premise, 
the  only  food  the  mutineers  now  have  is  bird  meat;  con 
clusion,  destroy  the  available  food  and  the  mutineers  will 
be  compelled  to  come  back  to  duty. 

I  have  acted  on  this  bit  of  logic.  I  began  experiment 
ally  by  tossing  small  chunks  of  fat  pork  and  crusts  of  stale 
bread  overside.  When  the  birds  descended  for  the  feast  I 
shot  them.  Every  carcass  thus  left  floating  on  the  surface 
of  the  sea  was  so  much  less  meat  for  the  mutineers. 

But  I  bettered  the  method.  Yesterday  I  overhauled  the 
medicine  chest,  and  I  dosed  my  chunks  of  fat  pork  and 
bread  with  the  contents  of  every  bottle  that  bore  a  label 
of  skull  and  crossbones.  I  even  added  rough-on-rats  to  the 
deadliness  of  the  mixture — this,  on  the  suggestion  of  the 
steward. 

And  to-day,  behold,  there  is  no  bird  left  in  the  sky. 
True,  while  I  played  my  game  yesterday  the  mutineers 
hooked  a  few  of  the  birds ;  but  now  the  rest  are  gone,  and 
that  is  bound  to  be  the  last  food  for  the  men  for'ard  until 
they  resume  duty. 

Yes;  it  is  grotesque.  It  is  a  boy's  game.  It  reads  like 
Midshipman  Easy,  like  Frank  Mildway,  like  Frank  Reade, 
Jr. ;  and  yet,  i'  faith,  life  and  death's  in  the  issue.  I  have 
just  gone  over  the  toll  of  our  dead  since  the  voyage  began. 

First  was  Christian  Jespersen,  killed  by  O  'Sullivan  when 
that  maniac  aspired  to  throw  overboard  Andy  Fay's  sea- 
boots;  then  0 'Sullivan,  because  he  interfered  with  Charles 
Davis 's  sleep,  brained  by  that  worthy  with  a  steel  marlin- 
spike;  next  Petro  Marinkovich,  just  ere  we  began  the 
passage  of  the  Horn,  murdered  undoubtedly  by  the  gang 
ster  clique,  his  life  cut  out  of  him  with  knives,  his  carcass 
left  lying  on  deck  to  be  found  by  us  and  be  buried  by  us; 
and  the  Samurai,  Captain  West,  a  sudden  though  not  a 
violent  death,  albeit  occurring  in  the  midst  of  all  elemental 


348         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

violence  as  Mr.  Pike  clawed  the  Elsinore  off  the  lee  shore 
of  the  Horn;  and  Boney,  the  Splinter,  following,  washed 
overboard  to  drown  as  we  cleared  the  sea-gashing  rock  tooth 
where  the  southern  tip  of  the  continent  bit  into  the  storm 
wrath  of  the  Antarctic;  and  the  big-footed,  clumsy  youth 
of  a  Finnish  carpenter,  hove  overside  as  a  Jonah  by  his 
fellows  who  believed  that  Finns  control  the  winds;  and 
Mike  Cipriani  and  Bill  Quigley,  Rome  and  Ireland,  shot 
down  on  the  poop  and  flung  overboard  alive  by  Mr.  Pike, 
still  alive  and  clinging  to  the  logline,  cut  adrift  by  the 
steward  to  be  eaten  alive  by  great-beaked  albatrosses,  molly- 
hawks,  and  sooty-plumaged  Cape  hens;  Steve  Roberts,  one 
time  cowboy,  shot  by  me  as  he  tried  to  shoot  me ;  Herman 
Lunkenheimer,  his  throat  cut  before  all  of  us  by  the  hound 
Bombini  as  Kid  Twist  stretched  the  throat  taut  from  be 
hind  ;  the  two  mates,  Mr.  Pike  and  Mr.  Mellaire,  mutually 
destroying  each  other  in  what  must  have  been  an  unwit 
nessed  epic  combat;  Ditman  Olansen,  speared  by  Wada  as 
he  charged  Berserk  at  the  head  of  the  mutineers  in  the  at 
tempt  to  rush  the  poop ;  and,  last,  Henry,  the  cadet  of  the 
perishing  house,  shot  at  the  wheel,  from  the  ventilator 
shaft,  in  the  course  of  his  day's  work. 

No;  as  I  contemplate  this  roll  call  of  the  dead  which  I 
have  just  made,  I  see  that  we  are  not  playing  a  boy's  game. 
Why,  we  have  lost  a  third  of  us,  and  the  bloodiest  battles 
of  history  have  rarely  achieved  such  a  percentage  of  mor 
tality.  Fourteen  of  us  have  gone  overside,  and  who  can 
tell  the  end? 

Nevertheless,  here  we  are,  masters  of  matter,  adventur 
ers  in  the  micro-organic,  planet  weighers,  sun  analyzers, 
star  rovers,  god  dreamers,  equipped  with  the  human  wis 
dom  of  all  the  ages,  and  yet,  quoting  Mr.  Pike,  to  come 
down  to  brass  tacks  we  are  a  lot  of  primitive  beasts,  fight 
ing  bestially,  slaying  bestially,  pursuing  bestially  food  and 
water,  air  for  our  lungs,  a  dry  space  above  the  deep,  and 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         349 

carcasses  skin-covered  and  intact.  And  over  this  menagerie 
of  beasts,  Margaret  and  I,  with  our  Asiatics  under  us,  rule 
top  dog.  We  are  all  dogs — there  is  no  getting  away  from 
it.  And  we,  the  fair-pigmented  ones,  by  the  seed  of  our 
ancestry  rulers  in  the  high  place,  shall  remain  top  dog 
over  the  rest  of  the  dogs.  Oh,  there  is  material  in  plenty 
for  the  cogitation  of  any  philosopher  on  a  windjammer  in 
mutiny  in  this  year  of  our  Lord  1913. 

Henry  was  the  fourteenth  of  us  to  go  overside  into  the 
dark  and  salty  disintegration  of  the  sea.  And  in  one  day 
he  has  been  well  avenged,  for  two  of  the  mutineers  have 
followed  him.  The  steward  called  my  attention  to  what 
was  taking  place.  He  touched  my  arm,  half  beyond  his 
servant's  self,  as  he  gloated  for'ard  at  the  men  heaving 
two  corpses  overside.  Weighted  with  coal,  they  sank  im 
mediately,  so  that  we  could  not  identify  them. 

"They  have  been  fighting,"  I  said.  "It  is  good  that 
they  should  fight  among  themselves. ' ' 

But  the  old  Chinese  merely  grinned  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  think  they  have  been  fighting?"  I  queried. 

"No  fight.  They  eat  'm  mollyhawk  and  albatross;  molly- 
hawk  and  albatross  eat  'm  fat  pork ;  two  men  he  die,  plenty 
men  much  sick,  you  bet,  damn  to  hell  me  very  much  glad. 
I  savve." 

And  I  think  he  was  right.  While  I  was  busy  baiting  the 
seabirds  the  mutineers  were  catching  them,  and  of  a  surety 
they  must  have  caught  some  that  had  eaten  of  my  various 
poisons. 

The  two  poisoned  ones  went  over  the  side  yesterday. 
Since  then  we  have  taken  the  census.  Two  men  only  have 
not  appeared,  and  they  are  Bob,  the  fat  and  overgrown 
feebling  youth,  and,  of  all  creatures,  the  Faun.  It  seems 
my  fate  that  I  had  to  destroy  the  Faun — the  poor,  tortured 


350         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

Faun,  always  willing  and  eager,  ever  desirous  to  please. 
There  is  a  madness  of  ill  luck  in  all  this.  Why  couldn't 
the  two  dead  men  have  been  Charles  Davis  and  Tony  the 
Greek?  Or  Bert  Rhine  and  Kid  Twist?  or  Bombini  and 
Andy  Fay?  Yes,  and  in  my  heart,  I  know  I  should  have 
felt  better  had  it  been  Isaac  Chantz  and  Arthur  Deacon, 
or  Nancy  and  Sundry  Buyers,  or  Shorty  and  Larry. 

The  steward  has  just  tendered  me  a  respectful  bit  of 
advice. 

"Next  time  we  chuck  'em  overboard  like  Henry,  much 
better  we  use  old  iron." 

"Getting  short  of  coal?"  I  asked. 

He  nodded  affirmation.  We  use  a  great  deal  of  coal  in 
our  cooking,  and  when  the  present  supply  gives  out  we 
shall  have  to  cut  through  a  bulkhead  to  get  at  the  cargo. 


CHAPTER   XLIX 

THE  situation  grows  tense.  There  are  no  more  seabirds, 
and  the  mutineers  are  starving.  Yesterday  I  talked  with 
Bert  Rhine.  To-day  I  talked  with  him  again,  and  he  will 
never  forget,  I  am  certain,  the  little  talk  we  had  this 
morning. 

To  begin  with,  last  evening  at  five  o'clock  I  heard  his 
voice  issuing  from  between  the  slits  of  the  ventilator  in  the 
after  wall  of  the  charthouse.  Standing  at  the  corner  of 
the  house,  quite  out  of  range,  I  answered  him. 

' '  Getting  hungry  ? "  I  jeered.  ' '  Let  me  tell  you  what  we 
are  going  to  have  for  dinner.  I  have  just  been  down  and 
seen  the  preparations.  Now  listen:  first,  caviar  on  toast; 
then  clam  bouillon;  and  creamed  lobster;  and  tinned  lamb 
chops  with  French  peas — you  know,  the  peas  that  melt  in 
one's  mouth;  and  California  asparagus  with  mayonnaise; 
and — oh,  I  forgot  to  mention  fried  potatoes  and  cold  pork 
and.  beans;  and  peach  pie;  and  coffee,  real  coffee.  Doesn't 
it  make  you  hungry  for  your  East  Side  ?  And,  say,  think 
of  the  free  lunch  going  to  waste  right  now  in  a  thousand 
saloons  in  good  old  New  York." 

I  had  told  him  the  truth.  The  dinner  I  described  (prin 
cipally  coming  out  of  tins  and  bottles,  to  be  sure),  was  the 
dinner  we  were  to  eat. 

"Cut  that,"  he  snarled.  "I  want  to  talk  business  with 
you." 

1  i  Right  down  to  brass  tacks, ' '  I  gibed.  ' '  Very  well,  when 
are  you  and  the  rest  of  your  rats  going  to  turn  to  ? " 

' '  Cut  that, ' '  he  reiterated.  "  I  've  got  you  where  I  want 
you  now.  Take  it  from  me,  I'm  givin'  it  straight.  I'm 

351 


352         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORfi 

not  tellin'  you  how,  but  I've  got  you  under  my  thumb. 
When  I  come  down  on  you,  you'll  crack." 

"Hell  is  full  of  cocksure  rats  like  you,"  I  retorted;  al 
though  I  never  dreamed  how  soon  he  would  be  writhing  in 
the  particular  hell  preparing  for  him. 

"Forget  it,"  he  sneered  back.  "I've  got  you  where  I 
want  you.  I'm  just  tellin'  you,  that's  all." 

"Pardon  me,"  I  replied,  "when  I  tell  you  that  I'm 
from  Missouri.  You'll  have  to  show  me." 

And  as  I  thus  talked  the  thought  went  through  my  mind 
of  how  I  naturally  sought  out  the  phrases  of  his  own  vo 
cabulary  in  order  to  make  myself  intelligible  to  him.  The 
situation  was  bestial,  with  sixteen  of  our  complement  al 
ready  gone  into  the  dark;  and  the  terms  I  employed  per 
force  were  terms  of  bestiality.  And  I  thought,  also,  of 
how  I  was  thus  compelled  to  dismiss  the  dreams  of  the 
Utopians,  the  visions  of  the  poets,  the  king  thoughts  of  the 
king  thinkers,  in  a  discussion  with  this  ripened  product  of 
the  New  York  City  inferno.  To  him  I  must  talk  in  the 
elemental  terms  of  life  and  death,  of  food  and  water,  of 
brutality  and  cruelty. 

"I  give  you  your  choice,"  he  went  on.  "Give  in  now, 
an'  you  won't  be  hurt,  none  of  you." 

"And  if  we  don't?"  I  dared  airily. 

' '  You  11  be  sorry  you  was  ever  born.  You  ain  't  a  mush- 
head,  you've  got  a  girl  there  that's  stuck  on  you.  It's 
about  time  you  think  of  her.  You  ain't  altogether  a  mutt. 
You  get  my  drive?" 

Ay,  I  did  get  it ;  and  somehow  across  my  brain  flashed  a 
vision  of  all  I  had  ever  read  and  heard  of  the  siege  of  the 
legations  at  Peking,  and  of  the  plans  of  the  white  men  for 
their  womenkind  in  the  event  of  the  yellow  hordes  break 
ing  through  the  last  lines  of  defense.  Ay,  and  the  old 
steward  got  it;  for  I  saw  his  black  eyes  glint  murderously 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         353 

in  their  narrow,  tilted  slits.  He  knew  the  drift  of  the 
gangster's  meaning. 

"You  get  my  drive?"  the  gangster  repeated. 

And  I  knew  anger.  Not  ordinary  anger,  but  cold  anger. 
And  I  caught  a  vision  of  the  high  place  in  which  we  had 
sat  and  ruled  down  the  ages  in  all  lands,  on  all  seas.  I 
saw  my  kind,  our  women  with  us,  in  forlorn  hopes  and 
lost  endeavors,  pent  in  hill  fortresses,  rotted  in  jungle  fast 
nesses,  cut  down  to  the  last  one  on  the  decks  of  rocking 
ships.  And  always,  our  women  with  us,  had  we  ruled  the 
beasts.  We  might  die,  our  women  with  us ;  but,  living,  we 
had  ruled.  It  was  a  royal  vision  I  glimpsed.  Ay,  and  in 
the  purple  of  it  I  grasped  the  ethic,  which  was  the  stuff 
of  the  fabric  of  which  it  was  builded.  It  was  the  sacred 
trust  of  the  seed,  the  bequest  of  duty  handed  down  from 
all  ancestors. 

And  I  flamed  more  coldly.  It  was  not  red-brute  anger. 
It  was  intellectual.  It  was  based  on  concept  and  history; 
it  was  the  philosophy  of  action  of  the  strong  and  the 
pride  of  the  strong  in  their  strength.  Now  at  last  I  knew 
Nietzsche.  I  knew  the  Tightness  of  the  books,  the  relation 
of  high  thinking  to  high  conduct,  the  transmutation  of 
midnight  thought  into  action  in  the  high  place  on  the  poop 
of  a  coal  carrier  in  the  year  nineteen  thirteen,  my  woman 
beside  me,  my  ancestors  behind  me,  my  slant-eyed  servitors 
under  me,  the  beasts  beneath  me  and  beneath  the  heel  of 
me.  I  knew  at  last  the  meaning  of  kingship. 

My  anger  was  white  and  cold.  This  subterranean  rat 
of  a  miserable  human,  crawling  through  the  bowels  of  the 
ship  to  threaten  me  and  mine!  A  rat  in  the  shelter  of  a 
knothole  making  a  noise  as  beastlike  as  any  rat  ever  made ! 
And  it  was  in  this  spirit  that  I  answered  the  gangster. 

"When  you  crawl  on  your  belly,  along  the  open  deck,  in 
the  broad  light  of  day,  like  a  yellow  cur  that  has  been 
licked  to  obedience,  and  when  you  show  by  your  every 


354         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

action  that  you  like  it  and  are  glad  to  do  it,  then,  and 
not  until  then,  will  I  talk  with  you. ' ' 

Thereafter,  for  the  next  ten  minutes,  he  shouted  all  the 
Billingsgate  of  his  kind  at  me  through  the  slits  in  the 
ventilator.  But  I  made  no  reply.  I  listened,  and  I 
listened  coldly,  and  as  I  listened  I  knew  why  the  English 
had  blown  their  mutinous  Sepoys  from  the  mouths  of 
cannon  in  India  long  years  ago. 

And  when,  this  morning,  I  saw1  the  steward  struggling 
with  a  five-gallon  carboy  of  sulphuric  acid,  I  never  dreamed 
the  use  he  intended  for  it. 

In  the  meantime  I  was  devising  another  way  to  over 
come  that  deadly  ventilator  shaft.  The  scheme  was  so 
simple  that  I  was  shamed  in  that  it  had  not  occurred  to 
me  at  the  very  beginning.  The  slitted  opening  was  small. 
Two  sacks  of  flour,  in  a  wooden  frame,  suspended  by 
ropes  from  the  edge  of  the  charthouse  roof  directly  above, 
would  effectually  cover  the  opening  and  block  all  re 
volver  fire. 

No  sooner  thought  than  done.  Tom  Spink  and  Louis 
were  on  top  the  charthouse  with  me,  and  preparing  to 
lower  the  flour,  when  we  heard  a  voice  issuing  from  the 
shaft. 

' '  Who 's  in  there  now  f  "  I  demanded.     ' '  Speak  up. ' ' 

"I'm  givin'  you  a  last  chance/'  Bert  Rhine  answered. 

And  just  then  around  the  corner  of  the  house  stepped 
the  steward.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  large  galvanized 
pail,  and  my  casual  thought  was  that  he  had  come  to  get 
rainwater  from  the  barrels.  Even  as  I  thought  it,  he 
made  a  sweeping  half-circle  with  the  pail  and  sloshed  its 
contents  into  the  ventilator  opening.  And  even  as  the 
liquid  flew  through  the  air  I  knew  it  for  what  it  was — 
undiluted  sulphuric  acid,  two  gallons  of  it  from  the  carboy. 

The  gangster  must  have  received  the  liquid  fire  in  the 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         355 

face  and  eyes.  And,  in  the  shock  of  pain,  he  must  have 
released  all  holds  and  fallen  upon  the  coal  at  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft.  His  cries  and  shrieks  of  anguish  were  ter 
rible,  and  I  was  reminded  of  the  starving  rats  which  had 
squealed  up  that  same  shaft  during  the  first  months  of  the 
voyage.  The  thing  was  sickening.  I  prefer  that  men  be 
killed  cleanly  and  easily. 

The  agony  of  the  wretch  I  did  not  fully  realize  until  the 
steward,  his  bare  forearms  sprayed  by  the  splash  from  the 
ventilator  slats,  suddenly  felt  the  bite  of  the  acid  through 
his  tight,  whole  skin  and  made  a  mad  rush  for  the  water 
barrel  at  the  corner  of  the  house.  And  Bert  Rhine,  the 
silent  man  of  soundless  laughter,  screaming  below  there  on 
the  coal,  was  enduring  the  bite  of  the  acid  in  his  eyes ! 

We  covered  the  ventilator  opening  with  our  flour  device ; 
the  screams  from  below  ceased  as  the  victim  was  evidently 
dragged  for'ard  across  the  coal  by  his  mates;  and  yet  I 
confess  to  a  miserable  forenoon.  As  Carlyle  has  said: 
" Death  is  easy;  all  men  must  die";  but  to  receive  two 
gallons  of  full-strength  sulphuric  acid  full  in  the  face  is  a 
vastly  different  and  vastly  more  horrible  thing  than  merely 
to  die.  Fortunately,  Margaret  was  below  at  the  time,  and, 
after  a  few  minutes  in  which  I  recovered  my  balance,  I 
bullied  and  swore  all  our  hands  into  keeping  the  happening 
from  her. 

Oh,  well,  and  we  have  got  ours  in  retaliation.  Off  and 
on,  through  all  of  yesterday,  after  the  ventilator  tragedy, 
there  were  noises  beneath  the  cabin  floor  or  deck.  We 
heard  them  under  the  dining  table,  under  the  steward's 
pantry,  under  Margaret's  stateroom.  This  deck  is  over 
laid  with  wood,  but  under  the  wood  is  iron,  or  steel,  rather, 
such  as  of  which  the  whole  Elsinore  is  builded. 

Margaret  and  I,  followed  by  Louis,  Wada,  and  the 
steward,  walked  about  from  place  to  place,  wherever  the 


356         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

sounds  arose  of  tappings  and  of  cold-chisels  against  iron. 
The  tappings  seemed  to  come  from  everywhere,  but  we 
concluded  that  the  concentration  necessary  on  any  spot 
to  make  an  opening  large  enough  for  a  man's  body  would 
inevitably  draw  our  attention  to  that  spot.  And,  as  Mar 
garet  said: 

"If  they  do  manage  to  cut  through,  they  must  come  up 
head  first,  and,  in  such  emergence,  what  chance  would  they 
have  against  us  ? '  ' 

So  I  relieved  Buckwheat  from  deck  duty,  placed  him  on 
watch  over  the  cabin  floor,  to  be  relieved  by  the  steward  in 
Margaret's  watches. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  after  prodigious  hammerings  and 
clangings  in  a  score  of  places,  all  noises  ceased.  Neither  in 
the  first  and  second  dog  watches,  nor  in  the  first  watch  of 
the  night,  were  the  noises  resumed.  When  I  took  charge 
of  the  poop  at  midnight,  Buckwheat  relieved  the  steward 
in  the  vigil  over  the  cabin  floor ;  and  as  I  leaned  on  the  rail 
at  the  break  of  the  poop,  while  my  four  hours  dragged 
slowly  by,  least  of  all  did  I  apprehend  danger  from  the 
cabin — especially  when  I  considered  the  two-gallon  pail  of 
raw  sulphuric  acid  ready  to  hand  for  the  first  head  that 
might  arise  through  an  opening  in  the  floor  not  yet  made. 
Our  rascals  for'ard  might  scale  the  poop,  or  cross  aloft 
from  mizzenmast  to  jigger  and  descend  upon  our  heads; 
but  how  they  could  invade  us  through  the  floor  was  be 
yond  me. 

But  they  did  invade.  A  modern  ship  is  a  complex 
affair.  How  was  I  to  guess  the  manner  of  the  invasion? 

It  was  two  in  the  morning,  and  for  an  hour  I  had  been 
puzzling  my  head  with  watching  the  smoke  arise  from  the 
after-division  of  the  for'ard  house  and  with  wondering 
why  the  mutineers  should  have  up  steam  in  the  donkey 
engine  at  such  an  ungodly  hour.  Not  on  the  whole  voyage 
had  the  donkey  engine  been  used.  Four  bells  had  just 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         357 

struck,  and  I  was  leaning  on  the  rail  at  the  break  of  the 
poop  when  I  heard  a  prodigious  coughing  and  choking 
from  aft.  Next,  Wada  ran  across  the  deck  to  me. 

"Big  trouble  with  Buckwheat,"  he  blurted  at  me.  "You 
go  quick!" 

I  shoved  him  my  rifle  and  left  him  on  guard  while  I 
raced  around  the  charthouse.  A  lighted  match,  in  the 
hands  of  Tom  Spink,  directed  me.  Between  the  booby 
hatch  and  the  wheel,  sitting  up  and  rocking  back  and 
forth  with  wringings  of  hands  and  wavings  of  arms,  tears 
of  agony  bursting  from  his  eyes,  was  Buckwheat.  My  first 
thought  was  that  in  some  stupid  way  he  had  got  the  acid 
into  his  own  eyes.  But  the  terrible  fashion  in  which  he 
coughed  and  strangled  would  quickly  have  undeceived  me 
had  not  Louis,  bending  over  the  booby  companion,  uttered 
a  startled  exclamation. 

I  joined  him,  and  one  whiff  of  the  air  that  came  up  from 
below  made  me  catch  my  breath  and  gasp.  I  had  inhaled 
sulphur.  On  the  instant  I  forgot  the  Elsinore,  the  mu 
tineers  for'ard,  everything  save  one  thing. 

The  next  I  knew  I  was  down  the  booby  ladder  and  reel 
ing  dizzily  about  the  big  after-room  as  the  sulphur  fumes 
bit  my  lungs  and  strangled  me.  By  the  dim  light  of  a 
sea  lantern  I  saw  the  old  steward,  on  hands  and  knees, 
coughing  and  gasping,  the  while  he  shook  awake  Yatsuda, 
the  first  sailmaker.  Uchino,  the  second  sailmaker,  still 
strangled  in  his  sleep. 

It  struck  me  that  the  air  might  be  better  nearer  the 
floor,  and  I  proved  it  when  I  dropped  on  my  hands  and 
knees.  I  rolled  Uchino  out  of  his  blankets  with  a  quick 
jerk,  wrapped  the  blankets  about  my  head,  face,  and 
mouth,  arose  to  my  feet,  and  dashed  for'ard  into  the  hall. 
After  a  couple  of  collisions  with  the  woodwork  I  again 
dropped  to  the  floor  and  rearranged  the  blankets  so  that, 


358         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

while  my  mouth  remained  covered,  I  could  draw,  or  with 
draw,  a  thickness  across  my  eyes. 

The  pain  of  the  fumes  was  bad  enough,  but  the  real 
hardship  was  the  dizziness  I  suffered.  I  blundered  into  the 
steward's  pantry,  and  out  of  it,  missed  the  cross  hall, 
stumbled  through  the  next  starboard  opening  in  the  long 
hall,  and  found  myself  bent  double  by  violent  collision  with 
the  dining-room  table. 

But  I  had  my  bearings.  Feeling  my  way  around  the 
table  and  bumping  most  of  the  poisoned  breath  out  of  me 
against  the  rotund-bellied  stove,  I  emerged  in  the  cross 
hall  and  made  my  way  to  starboard.  Here,  at  the  base 
of  the  chartroom  stairway,  I  gained  the  hall  that  led  aft. 
By  this  time  my  own  situation  seemed  so  serious  that, 
careless  of  any  collision,  I  went  aft  in  long  leaps. 

Margaret's  door  was  open.  I  plunged  into  her  room. 
The  moment  I  drew  the  blanket  thickness  from  my  eyes  I 
knew1  blindness  and  a  modicum  of  what  Bert  Rhine  must 
have  suffered.  Oh,  the  intolerable  bite  of  the  sulphur  in 
my  lungs,  nostrils,  eyes,  and  brain!  No  light  burned  in 
the  room.  I  could  only  strangle  and  stumble  for'ard  to 
Margaret's  bed,  upon  which  I  collapsed. 

She  was  not  there.  I  felt  about,  and  I  felt  only  the 
warm  hollow  her  body  had  left  in  the  under  sheet.  Even 
in  my  agony  and  helplessness,  the  intimacy  of  that  warmth 
her  body  had  left  was  very  dear  to  me.  Between  the  lack 
of  oxygen  in  my  lungs  (due  to  the  blankets),  the  pain  of 
the  sulphur,  and  the  mortal  dizziness  in  my  brain,  I  felt 
that  I  might  well  cease  there  where  the  linen  warmed  my 
hand. 

Perhaps  I  should  have  ceased  had  I  not  heard  a  terrible 
coughing  from  along  the  hall.  It  was  new  life  to  me.  I 
fell  from  bed  to  floor  and  managed  to  get  upright  until  I 
gained  the  hall,  where  again  I  fell.  Thereafter  I  crawled 
on  hands  and  knees  to  the  foot  of  the  stairway.  By  means 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         359 

of  the  newel  post  I  drew  myself  upright  and  listened. 
Near  me  something  moved  and  strangled.  I  fell  upon  it 
and  found  in  my  arms  all  the  softness  of  Margaret. 

How  describe  that  battle  up  the  stairway?  It  was  a 
crucifixion  of  struggle,  an  age-long  nightmare  of  agony. 
Time  after  time,  as  my  consciousness  blurred,  the  tempta 
tion  was  upon  me  to  cease  all  effort  and  let  myself  blur 
down  into  the  ultimate  dark.  I  fought  my  way  step  by 
step.  Margaret  was  now  quite  unconscious,  and  I  lifted 
her  body  step  by  step,  or  dragged  it  several  steps  at  a 
time,  and  fell  with  it,  and  back  with  it,  and  lost  much 
that  had  been  so  hardly  gained.  And  yet,  out  of  it  all  this 
I  remember:  that  warm,  soft  body  of  her  was  the  dearest 
thing  in  the  world — vastly  more  dear  than  the  pleasant 
land  I  remotely  remembered,  than  all  the  books  and  all 
the  humans  I  had  ever  known,  than  the  deck  above,  with 
its  sweet  pure  air  softly  blowing  under  the  cool  starry  sky. 

As  I  look  back  upon  it  I  am  aware  of  one  thing:  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  there  and  saving  myself  never 
crossed  my  mind.  The  one  place  for  me  was  where  she 
was. 

Truly,  this  which  I  write  seems  absurd  and  purple;  yet 
it  was  not  absurd  during  those  long  minutes  on  the  chart- 
room  stairway.  One  must  taste  death  for  a  few  centuries 
of  such  agony  ere  he  can  receive  sanction  for  purple 
passages. 

And  as  I  fought  my  screaming  flesh,  my  reeling  brain, 
and  climbed  that  upward  way,  I  prayed  one  prayer:  that 
the  charthouse  doors  out  upon  the  poop  might  not  be  shut. 
Life  and  death  lay  right  there  in  that  one  point  of  the 
issue.  Was  there  any  creature  of  my  creatures  aft  with 
common  sense  and  anticipation  sufficient  to  make  him  think 
to  open  those  doors?  How  I  yearned  for  one  man,  for  one 
proved  henchman,  such  as  Mr.  Pike,  to  be  on  the  poop! 


360         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

As  it  was,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Tom  Spink  and  Buck 
wheat,  my  men  were  Asiatics. 

I  gained  the  top  of  the  stairway,  but  was  too  far  gone 
to  rise  to  my  feet.  Nor  could  I  rise  upright  on  my  knees. 
I  crawled  like  any  four-legged  animal — nay,  I  wormed  my 
way  like  a  snake,  prone  to  the  deck.  It  was  a  matter  of 
several  feet  to  the  dorway.  I  died  a  score  of  times  in  those 
several  feet;  but  ever  I  endured  the  agony  of  resurrection 
and  dragged  Margaret  with  me.  Sometimes  the  full  strength 
I  could  exert  did  not  move  her,  and  I  lay  with  her  and 
coughed  and  strangled  my  way  through  to  another  resur 
rection. 

And  the  door  was  open.  The  doors  to  starboard  and  to 
port  were  both  open;  and,  as  the  Elsinore  rolled  a  draft 
through  the  charthouse  hall,  my  lungs  filled  with  pure, 
cool  air.  As  I  drew  myself  across  the  high  threshold  and 
pulled  Margaret  after  me,  from  very  far  away  I  heard  the 
cries  of  men  and  the  reports  of  rifle  and  revolver.  And, 
ere  I  fainted  into  the  blackness,  on  my  side,  staring,  my 
pain  gone  so  beyond  endurance  that  it  had  achieved  its  own 
anaesthesia,  I  glimpsed,  dreamlike  and  distant,  the  sharply 
silhouetted  pooprail,  dark  forms  that  cut  and  thrust  and 
smote,  and,  beyond,  the  mizzenmast  brightly  lighted  by 
our  illuminators. 

Well,  the  mutineers  failed  to  take  the  poop.  My  five 
Asiatics  and  two  white  men  had  held  the  citadel  while 
Margaret  and  I  lay  unconscious  side  by  side. 

The  whole  affair  was  very  simple.  Modern  maritime 
quarantine  demands  that  ships  shall  not  carry  vermin  that 
are  themselves  plague  carriers.  In  the  donkey-engine  sec 
tion  of  the  for'ard  house  is  a  complete  fumigating  ap 
paratus.  The  mutineers  had  merely  to  lay  and  fasten  the 
pipes  aft  across  the  coal,  to  chisel  a  hole  through  the 
double  deck  of  steel  and  wood  under  the  cabin,  and  to 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINOBE         361 

connect  up  and  begin  to  pump.  Buckwheat  had  fallen 
asleep  and  been  awakened  by  the  strangling  sulphur  fumes. 
We  in  the  high  place  had  been  smoked  out  by  our  rascals 
like  so  many  rats. 

It  was  Wada  who  had  opened  one  of  the  doors.  The 
old  steward  had  opened  the  other.  Together  they  had 
attempted  the  descent  of  the  stairway  and  been  driven 
back  by  the  fumes.  Then  they  had  engaged  in  the  struggle 
to  repel  the  rush  from  forward. 

Margaret  and  I  are  agreed  that  sulphur,  excessively  in 
haled,  leaves  the  lungs  sore.  Only  now,  after  a  lapse  of  a 
dozen  hours,  can  we  draw  breath  in  anything  that  re 
sembles  comfort.  But  still  my  lungs  were  not  so  sore  as 
to  prevent  my  telling  her  what  I  had  learned  she  meant 
to  me.  And  yet  she  is  only  a  woman — I  tell  her  so ;  I  tell 
her  that  there  are  at  least  seven  hundred  and  fifty  mil 
lions  of  two-legged,  long-haired,  gentle-voiced,  soft-bodied, 
female  humans  like  her  on  the  planet,  and  that  she  is 
really  swamped  by  the  immensity  of  numbers  of  her  sex 
and  kind.  But  I  tell  her  something  more.  I  tell  her  that 
of  all  of  them  she  is  the  only  one.  And,  better  yet,  to 
myself  and  for  myself,  I  believe  it.  I  know  it.  The  last 
least  part  of  me  and  all  of  me  proclaims  it. 

Love  is  wonderful.  It  is  the  everlasting  and  miraculous 
amazement.  Oh,  trust  me,  I  know  the  old,  hard,  scientific 
method  of  weighing  and  calculating  and  classifying  love. 
Love  is  a  profound  foolishness,  a  cosmic  trick  and  quip,  to 
the  contemplative  eye  of  the  philosopher — yes,  and  of  the 
futurist.  But  when  one  forsakes  such  intellectual  flesh- 
pots  and  becomes  mere  human  and  male  human,  in  short, 
a  lover,  then  all  he  may  do,  and  which  is  what  he  cannot 
help  doing,  is  to  yield  to  the  compulsions  of  being  and 
throw  both  his  arms  around  love  and  hold  it  closer  to 
him  than  is  his  own  heart  close  to  him.  This  is  the  sum- 


362         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINOEE 

mit  of  his  life,  and  of  man's  life.  Higher  than  this  no 
man  may  rise.  The  philosophers  toil  and  struggle  on  mole 
hill  peaks  far  below.  He  who  has  not  loved  has  not  tested 
the  ultimate  sweet  of  living.  I  know.  I  love  Margaret,  a 
woman.  She  is  desirable. 


RE         365 


-  on 


CHAPTER   L 

IN  the  past  twenty-four  hours  many  things  have  hap 
pened.  To  begin  with,  we  nearly  lost  the  steward  in  the 
second  dog  watch  last  evening.  Through  the  slits  in  the 
ventilator  some  man  thrust  a  knife  into  the  sacks  of  flour 
and  cut  them  wide  open  from  top  to  bottom.  In  the  dark 
the  flour  poured  to  the  deck  unobserved. 

Of  course,  the  man  behind  could  not  see  through  the 
screen  of  empty  sacks,  but  he  took  a  blind  potshot  at  point- 
blank  range  when  the  steward  went  by,  slip-sloppily  drag 
ging  the  heels  of  his  slippers.  Fortunately  it  was  a  miss, 
but  so  close  a  miss  was  it  that  his  cheek  and  neck  were 
burned  with  powder  grains. 

At  six  bells  in  the  first  watch  came  another  surprise. 
Tom  Spink  came  to  me  where  I  stood  guard  at  the  for'ard 
end  of  the  poop.  His  voice  shook  as  he  spoke. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  sir,  they've  come,"  he  said. 

' '  Who  ? "  I  asked  sharply. 

"Them,"  he  chattered.  "The  ones  that  come  aboard 
off  the  Horn,  sir,  the  three  drownded  sailors.  They're  there 
aft,  sir,  the  three  of  'em,  standin '  in  a  row  by  the  wheel. ' ' 

"How  did  they  get  there?" 

"Bein'  warlocks,  they  flew,  sir.  You  didn't  see  'm  go 
by  you,  did  you,  sir  ? " 

"No,"  I  admitted.     "They  never  went  by  me." 

Poor  Tom  Spink  groaned. 

"But  there  are  lines  aloft  there  on  which  they  could 
cross  over  from  mizzen  to  jigger,"  I  added.  "Send  Wada 
tome." 

When  the  latter  relieved  me  I  went  aft.  And  there  in  a 

363 


362         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 


w  were  our  three  pale-haired  storm  waifs  with  the  topaz 
eyes.  In  the  light  of  a  bull's-eye,  held  on  them  by  Louis, 
their  eyes  never  seemed  more  like  the  eyes  of  great  cats. 
And,  heavens,  they  purred!  At  least,  the  inarticulate 
noises  they  made  sounded  more  like  purring  than  anything 
else.  That  these  sounds  meant  friendliness  was  very  evi 
dent.  Also,  they  held  out  their  hands,  palms  upward,  in 
unmistakable  sign  of  peace.  Each  in  turn  doffed  his  cap 
and  placed  my  hand  for  a  moment  on  his  head.  Without 
doubt  this  meant  their  offer  of  fealty,  their  acceptance  of 
me  as  master. 

I  nodded  my  head.  There  was  nothing  to  be  said  to  men 
who  purred  like  cats,  while  sign  language  in  the  light  of 
the  bull  's-eye  was  rather  difficult.  Tom  Spink  groaned  pro 
test  when  I  told  Louis  to  take  them  below  and  give  them 
blankets. 

I  made  the  sleep  sign  to  them,  and  they  nodded  grate 
fully,  hesitated,  then  pointed  to  their  mouths  and  rubbed 
their  stomachs. 

II  Drowned  men  do  not  eat,"  I  laughed  to  Tom  Spink. 
'  '  Go  down  and  watch  them.  —  Feed  them  up,  Louis,  all  they 
want.    It's  a  good  sign  of  short  rations  for'ard." 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Tom  Spink  was  back. 

"Well,  did  they  eat?"  I  challenged  him. 

But  he  was  unconvinced.  The  very  quantity  they  had 
eaten  was  a  suspicious  thing,  and,  further,  he  had  heard 
of  a  kind  of  ghost  that  devoured  dead  bodies  in  graveyards. 
Therefore,  he  concluded,  mere  non-eating  was  no  test  for  a 
ghost. 

The  third  event  of  moment  occurred  this  morning  at 
seven  o  'clock.  The  mutineers  called  for  a  truce  ;  and  when 
Nosey  Murphy,  the  Maltese  Cockney,  and  the  inevitable 
Charles  Davis  stood  beneath  me  on  the  main  deck  their 
faces  showed  lean  and  drawn.  Famine  had  been  my  great 
ally.  And,  in  truth,  with  Margaret  beside  me  in  that 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         365 

high  place  of  the  break  of  the  poop,  as  I  looked  down  on 
the  hungry  wretches  I  felt  very  strong.  Never  had  the 
inequality  of  numbers  fore  and  aft  been  less  than  now. 
The  three  deserters,  added  to  our  own  nine,  made  twelve 
of  us.  "While  the  mutineers,  after  subtracting  Ditman 
Olansen,  Bob  and  the  Faun,  totaled  only  an  even  score. 
And  of  these  Bert  Rhine  must  certainly  be  in  a  bad  way, 
while  there  were  many  weaklings  such  as  Sundry  Buyers, 
Nancy,  Larry,  and  Lars  Jacobsen. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  I  demanded.  "I  haven't 
much  time  to  waste.  Breakfast  is  ready  and  waiting." 

Charles  Davis  started  to  speak,  but  I  shut  him  off. 

' '  I  '11  have  nothing  out  of  you,  Davis.  At  least  not  now. 
Later  on,  when  I'm  in  that  court  of  law  you've  bothered 
me  with  for  half  the  voyage,  you'll  get  your  turn  at  talk 
ing.  And  when  that  time  comes  don't  forget  that  I  shall 
have  a  few  words  to  say." 

Again  he  began,  but  this  time  was  stopped  by  Nosey 
Murphy. 

* '  Aw,  shut  your  trap,  Davis, ' '  the  gangster  snarled,  ' l  or 
I'll  shut  it  for  you."  He  glanced  up  to  me.  "We  want 
to  go  back  to  work,  that 's  what  we  want. ' ' 

"Which  is  not  the  way  to  ask  for  it,"  I  answered. 

"Sir,  "he  added  hastily. 

"That's  better,"  I  commented. 

"Oh,  my  God,  sir,  don't  let  'em  come  aft,"  Tom  Spink 
muttered  hurriedly  in  my  ear.  "That'd  be  the  end  of  all 
of  us.  And  even  if  they  didn't  get  you  an'  the  rest, 
they'd  heave  me  over  some  dark  night.  They  ain't  never 
goin'  to  forgive  me,  sir,  for  joinin'  in  with  the  after 
guard." 

I  ignored  the  interruption  and  addressed  the  gangster. 

"There's  nothing  like  going  to  work  when  you  want 
to  as  badly  as  you  seem  to.  Suppose  all  hands  get  sail  on 
her  just  to  show  good  intention." 


366         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

"We'd  like  to  eat  first,  sir,"  he  objected. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  setting  sail  first,"  was  my  reply. 
"And  you  may  as  well  get  it  from  me  straight  that  what  I 
like  goes  aboard  this  ship."— I  almost  said  "hooker." 

Nosey  Murphy  hesitated  and  looked  to  the  Maltese  Cock 
ney  for  counsel.  The  latter  debated,  as  if  gauging  the 
measure  of  his  weakness  while  he  stared  aloft  at  the  work 
involved.  Finally  he  nodded. 

"All  right,  sir,"  the  gangster  spoke  up.  "We'll  do  it 
.  .  .  but  can't  something  be  cookin'  in  the  galley  while 
we're  doin'  it?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  didn't  have  that  in  mind,  and  I  don't  care  to  change 
my  mind  now.  When  every  sail  is  stretched  and  every 
yard  braced,  and  all  that  mess  of  gear  cleared  up,  food  for 
a  good  meal  will  be  served  out.  Yon  needn't  bother  about 
the  spanker  nor  the  mizzen  braces.  We  '11  make  your  work 
lighter  by  that  much." 

In  truth,  as  they  climbed  aloft  they  showed  how  miser 
ably  weak  they  were.  There  were  some  too  feeble  to  go 
aloft.  Poor  Sundry  Buyers  continually  pressed  his  abdo 
men  as  he  toiled  around  the  deck  capstans;  and  never  was 
Nancy's  face  quite  so  forlorn  as  when  he  obeyed  the  Mal 
tese  Cockney's  command  and  went  up  to  loose  the  mizzen 
skysail. 

In  passing  I  must  note  one  delicious  miracle  that  was 
worked  before  our  eyes.  They  were  hoisting  the  mizzen 
upper  topsail  yard  by  means  of  one  of  the  patent  deck 
capstans.  Although  they  had  reversed  the  gear  so  as  to 
double  the  purchase,  they  were  having  a  hard  time  of  it. 
Lars  Jacobsen  was  limping  on  his  twice-broken  leg,  and 
with  him  were  Sundry  Buyers,  Tony  the  Greek,  Bombini, 
and  Mulligan  Jacobs.  Nosey  Murphy  held  the  turn. 

When  they  stopped  from  sheer  exhaustion,  Murphy's 
glance  chanced  to  fall  on  Charles  Davis,  the  one  man  who 


THE   MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         367 

had  not  worked  since  the  outset  of  the  voyage  and  who 
was  not  working  then. 

''Bear  a  hand,  Davis,"  the  gangster  called. 

Margaret  gurgled  low  laughter  in  my  ear  as  she  caught 
the  drift  of  the  episode. 

The  sea  lawyer  looked  at  the  other  in  amazement  ere  he 
answered : 

"I  guess  not." 

After  nodding  Sundry  Buyers  over  to  him  to  take  the 
turn,  Murphy  straightened  his  back  and  walked  close  to 
Davis,  then  said  very  quietly: 

"I  guess  yes." 

That  was  all.  For  a  space  neither  spoke.  Davis  seemed 
to  be  giving  the  matter  judicial  consideration.  The  men  at 
the  capstan  panted,  rested,  and  looked  on — all  save  Bom- 
bini,  who  slunk  across  the  deck  until  he  stood  at  Murphy 's 
shoulder. 

In  such  circumstances  the  decision  Charles  Davis  gave 
was  eminently  the  right  one,  although  even  then  he  offered 
a  compromise. 

1 '  I  '11  hold  the  turn, ' '  he  volunteered. 

' 'You '11  hump  around  one  of  them  capstan  bars,"  Mur 
phy  said. 

The  sea  lawyer  made  no  mistake.  He  knew  in  all  abso 
luteness  that  he  was  choosing  between  life  and  death,  and 
he  limped  over  to  the  capstan  and  found  his  place.  And 
as  the  work  started,  and  as  he  toiled  around  and  around 
the  narrow  circle,  Margaret  and  I  shamelessly  and  loudly 
laughed  our  approval.  And  our  own  men  stole  for'ard 
along  the  poop  to  peer  down  at  the  spectacle  of  Charles 
Davis  at  work. 

All  of  which  must  have  pleased  Nosey  Murphy,  for,  as 
he  continued  to  hold  the  turn  and  coil  down,  he  kept  a 
critical  eye  on  Davis 


368         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

' '  More  juice,  Davis ! "  he  commanded  with  abrupt  sharp 
ness. 

And  Davis,  with  a  startle,  visibly  increased  his  efforts. 

This  was  too  much  for  our  fellows,  who,  Asiatics  and  all, 
applauded  with  laughter  and  handclapping.  And  what 
could  I  do?  It  was  a  gala  day,  and  our  faithful  ones 
deserved  some  little  recompense  of  amusement.  So  I  ig 
nored  the  breach  of  discipline  and  of  poop  etiquette  by 
strolling  away  aft  with  Margaret. 

At  the  wheel  was  one  of  our  storm  waifs.  I  set  the 
course  due  east  for  Valparaiso,  and  sent  the  steward  below 
to  bring  up  sufficient  food  for  one  substantial  meal  for 
the  mutineers. 

"When  do  we  get  our  next  grub,  sir?"  Nosey  Murphy 
asked,  as  the  steward  served  the  supplies  down  to  him 
from  the  poop. 

"At  midday,"  I  answered.  "And  as  long  as  you  and 
your  gang  are  good,  you'll  get  your  grub  three  times  each 
day.  You  can  choose  your  own  watches  any  way  you 
please.  But  the  ship 's  work  must  be  done,  and  done  prop 
erly.  If  it  isn  't,  then  the  grub  stops.  That  will  do.  Now 
go  for'ard." 

"One  thing  more,  sir,"  he  said  quickly.  "Bert  Rhine  is 
awful  bad.  He  can't  see,  sir.  It  looks  like  he's  going 
to  lose  his  face.  He  can't  sleep.  He  groans  all  the  time." 

It  was  a  busy  day.  I  made  a  selection  of  things  from 
the  medicine  chest  for  the  acid-burned  gangster ;  and,  find 
ing  that  Murphy  knew  how  to  manipulate  a  hypodermic 
syringe,  intrusted  him  with  one. 

Then,  too,  I  practiced  with  the  sextant  and  think  I 
fairly  caught  the  sun  at  noon  and  correctly  worked  up  the 
observation.  But  this  is  latitude,  and  is  comparatively 
easy.  Longitude  is  more  difficult.  But  I  am  reading  up 
on  it. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         369 

All  afternoon  a  gentle  northerly  fan  of  air  snored  the 
Elsinore  through  the  water  at  a  five-knot  clip,  and  our 
course  lay  east  for  land,  for  the  habitations  of  men,  for 
the  law  and  order  that  men  institute  whenever  they  organ 
ize  into  groups.  Once  in  Valparaiso,  with  police  flag  flying, 
our  mutineers  will  be  taken  care  of  by  the  shore  authori 
ties. 

Another  thing  I  did  was  to  rearrange  our  watches  aft 
so  as  to  split  up  the  three  storm  visitors.  Margaret  took 
one  in  her  watch,  along  with  the  two  sailmakers,  Tom 
Spink,  and  Louis.  Louis  is  half  white,  and  all  trustworthy, 
so  that,  at  all  times,  on  deck  or  below,  he  is  told  off  to  the 
task  of  never  letting  the  topaz-eyed  one  out  of  his  sight. 

In  my  watch  are  the  steward,  Buckwheat,  Wada,  and  the 
other  two  topaz-eyed  ones.  And  to  one  of  them  Wada  is 
told  off;  and  to  the  other  is  assigned  the  steward.  We 
are  not  taking  any  chances.  Always,  night  and  day,  on 
duty  or  off,  these  storm  strangers  will  have  one  of  our 
proved  men  watching  them. 

Yes;  and  I  tried  the  stranger  men  out  last  evening.  It 
was  after  a  council  with  Margaret.  She  was  sure,  and  I 
agreed  with  her,  that  the  men  for'ard  are  not  blindly 
yielding  to  our  bringing  them  in  to  be  prisoners  in  Val 
paraiso.  As  we  tried  to  forecast  it,  their  plan  is  to  desert 
the  Elsinore  in  the  boats  as  soon  as  we  fetch  up  with  the 
land.  Also,  considering  some  of  the  bitter  lunatic  spirits 
for'ard,  there  would  be  a  large  chance  of  their  drilling 
the  Elsinore's  steel  sides  and  scuttling  her  ere  they  took 
to  the  boats.  For  scuttling  a  ship  is  surely  as  ancient  a 
practice  as  mutiny  on  the  high  seas. 

So  it  was,  at  one  in  the  morning,  that  I  tried  out  our 
strangers.  Two  of  them  I  took  for'ard  with  me  in  the 
raid  on  the  small  boats.  One  I  left  beside  Margaret,  who 
kept  charge  of  the  poop.  On  the  other  side  of  him  stood 


370         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

the  steward  with  his  big  hacking  knife.  By  signs  I  had 
made  it  clear  to  him,  and  to  his  two  comrades  who  were 
to  accompany  me  for'ard,  that  at  the  first  sign  of  treach 
ery  he  would  be  killed.  And  not  only  did  the  old  steward, 
with  signs  emphatic  and  unmistakable,  pledge  himself  to 
perform  the  execution,  but  we  were  all  convinced  that  he 
was  eager  for  the  task. 

With  Margaret  I  also  left  Buckwheat  and  Tom  Spink. 
Wada,  the  two  sailmakers,  Louis,  and  the  two  topaz-eyed 
ones  accompanied  me.  In  addition  to  fighting  weapons, 
we  were  armed  with  axes.  We  crossed  the  main  deck  un 
observed,  gained  the  bridge  by  way  of  the  'midship  house, 
and,  by  way  of  the  bridge,  gained  the  top  of  the  for'ard 
house.  Here  were  the  first  boats  we  began  work  on;  but, 
first  of  all,  I  called  in  the  lookout  from  the  forecastle-head. 

He  was  Mulligan  Jacobs,  and  he  picked  his  way  across 
the  wreck  of  the  bridge  where  the  fore-topgallant  yard 
still  lay,  and  came  up  to  me  unafraid,  as  implacable  and 
bitter  as  ever. 

' '  Jacobs, ' '  I  whispered,  ' '  you  are  to  stay  here  beside  me 
until  we  finish  the  job  of  smashing  the  boats.  Do  you  get 
that?" 

"As  though  it  could  fright  me,"  he  growled  all  too 
loudly.  "Go  ahead  for  all  I  care.  I  know  your  game. 
And  I  know  the  game  of  the  hell's  maggots  under  our  feet 
this  minute.  'Tis  they  that'd  desert  in  the  boats.  'Tis 
you  that'll  smash  the  boats  an'  jail  'm  kit  an'  crew." 

"S-s-s-h, "  I  vainly  interpolated. 

"What  of  it?"  he  went  on  as  loudly  as  ever.  "They're 
sleepin'  with  full  bellies.  The  only  night  watch  we  keep 
is  the  lookout.  Even  Rhine's  asleep.  A  few  jolts  of  the 
needle  has  put  a  clapper  to  his  eternal  moanin'.  Go  on 
with  your  work.  Smash  the  boats.  'Tis  nothin'  I  care. 
Tis  well  I  know  my  own  crooked  back  is  worth  more  to 
me  than  the  necks  of  the  scum  of  the  world  below  there.''' 


THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE         371 

"If  you  felt  that  way,  why  didn't  you  join  us?"  I 
queried. 

"Because  I  like  you  no  better  than  them  an'  not  half  as 
well.  They  are  what  you  an'  your  fathers  have  made  'em. 
An'  who  in  hell  are  you  an'  your  fathers?  Robbers  of  the 
toil  of  men.  I  like  them  little.  I  like  you  and  your  fath 
ers  not  at  all.  Only  I  like  myself  and  me  crooked  back 
that's  a  livin'  proof  there  ain't  no  God  and  makes  Brown 
ing  a  liar. ' ' 

' '  Join  us  now, ' '  I  urged,  meeting  him  in  his  mood.  ' '  It 
will  be  easier  for  your  back." 

"To  hell  with  you,"  was  his  answer.  "Go  ahead  an' 
smash  the  boats.  You  can  hang  some  of  them.  But  you 
can't  touch  me  with  the  law.  'Tis  me  that's  a  crippled 
creature  of  circumstance,  too  weak  to  raise  a  hand  against 
any  man — a  feather  blown  about  by  the  windy  contention 
of  men  strong  in  their  back  an'  brainless  in  their  heads." 

"As  you  please,"  I  said. 

"As  I  can't  help  pleasin',"  he  retorted,  "bein'  what  I 
am,  an'  so  made  for  the  little  flash  between  the  darknesses 
which  men  call  life.  Now,  why  couldn't  I  'a'  been  a 
butterfly,  or  a  fat  pig  in  a  full  trough,  or  a  mere  mortal 
man  with  a  straight  back  an'  women  to  love  me.  Go  on 
an'  smash  the  boats.  Play  hell  to  the  top  of  your  bent. 
Like  me,  you'll  end  in  the  darkness.  And  your  darkness '11 
be  as  dark  as  mine. ' ' 

' '  A  full  belly  puts  the  spunk  back  into  you, ' '  I  sneered. 

"  'Tis  on  an  empty  belly  that  the  juice  of  my  dislike 
turns  to  acid.  Go  on  an'  smash  the  boats." 

"Whose  idea  was  the  sulphur?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  not  tellin'  you  the  man,  but  I  envied  him  until  it 
showed  failure.  An'  whose  idea  was  it  to  douse  the  sul 
phuric  into  Rhine's  face?  He'll  lose  that  same  face,  from 
the  way  it's  shedding." 


372         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

1  'Nor  will  I  tell  you/'  I  said.  "Though  I  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  glad  the  idea  was  not  mine." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  muttered  cryptically,  "different  customs 
on  different  ships,  as  the  cook  said  when  he  went  for'ard 
to  cast  off  the  spanker  sheet." 

Not  until  the  job  was  done  and  I  was  back  on  the  poop 
did  I  have  time  to  work  out  the  drift  of  that  last  figure 
in  its  terms  of  the  sea.  Mulligan  Jacobs  might  have  been 
an  artist,  a  philosophic  poet,  had  he  not  been  born  crooked 
with  a  crooked  back. 

And  we  smashed  the  boats.  With  axes  and  sledges  it 
was  an  easier  task  than  I  had  imagined.  On  top  of  both 
houses  we  left  the  boats  masses  of  splintered  wreckage, 
the  topaz-eyed  ones  working  most  energetically;  and  we 
regained  the  poop  without  a  shot  being  fired.  The  fore 
castle  turned  out,  of  course,  at  our  noise,  but  made  no 
attempt  to  interfere  with  us. 

And  right  here  I  register  another  complaint  against  the 
sea  novelists.  A  score  of  men  for'ard,  desperate  all,  with 
desperate  deeds  behind  them,  and  jail  and  the  gallows 
facing  them  not  many  days  away,  should  have  only  begun 
to  fight.  And  yet  this  score  of  men  did  nothing  while  we 
destroyed  their  last  chance  for  escape. 

"But  where  did  they  get  the  grub?"  the  steward  asked 
me  afterward. 

This  question  he  has  asked  me  every  day  since  the  first 
day  Mr.  Pike  began  cudgeling  his  brains  over  it.  I  won 
der,  had  I  asked  Mulligan  Jacobs  the  question,  if  he  would 
have  told  me.  At  any  rate,  in  court  at  Valparaiso  that 
question  will  be  answered.  In  the  meantime  I  suppose  I 
shall  submit  to  having  the  steward  ask  me  it  daily. 

"It  is  murder  and  mutiny  on  the  high  seas,"  I  told 
them  this  morning,  when  they  came  aft  in  a  body  to  com- 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         373 

plain  about  the  destruction  of  the  boats  and  to  demand  my 
intentions. 

And  as  I  looked  down  upon  the  poor  wretches  from  the 
break  of  the  poop,  standing  there  in  the  high  place,  the 
vision  of  my  kind  down  all  its  mad,  violent  and  masterful 
past  was  strong  upon  me.  Already,  since  our  departure 
from  Baltimore,  three  other  men,  masters,  had  occupied 
this  high  place  and  gone  their  way— the  Samurai,  Mr.  Pike, 
and  Mr.  Mellaire.  I  stood  here,  fourth,  no  seaman,  merely 
a  master  by  the  blood  of  my  ancestors;  and  the  work  of 
the  Elsinore  in  the  world  went  on. 

Bert  Ehine,  his  head  and  face  swathed  in  bandages,  stood 
there  beneath  me,  and  I  felt  for  him  a  tingle  of  respect. 
He,  too,  in  a  subterranean,  ghetto  way,  was  master  over 
his  rats.  Nosey  Murphy  and  Kid  Twist  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  their  stricken  gangster  leader.  It  was  his 
will,  because  of  his  terrible  injury,  to  get  in  to  land  and 
doctors  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  preferred  taking  his 
chance  in  court  against  the  chance  of  losing  his  life,  or, 
perhaps,  his  eyesight. 

The  crew  was  divided  against  itself;  and  Isaac  Chantz, 
the  Jew,  his  wounded  shoulder  with  a  hunch  to  it,  seemed 
to  lead  the  revolt  against  the  gangsters.  His  wound  was 
enough  to  convict  him  in  any  court,  and  well  he  knew  it. 
Beside  him,  and  at  his  shoulders,  clustered  the  Maltese 
Cockney,  Andy  Fay,  Arthur  Deacon,  Frank  Fitzgibbon, 
Richard  Giller,  and  John  Hackey. 

In  another  group,  still  allegiant  to  the  gangsters,  were 
men  such  as  Shorty,  Sorensen,  Lars  Jacobsen,  and  Larry. 
Charles  Davis  was  prominently  in  the  gangster  group.  A 
fourth  group  was  composed  of  Sundry  Buyers,  Nancy,  and 
Tony  the  Greek.  This  group  was  distinctly  neutral.  And, 
finally,  unaffiliated,  quite  by  himself,  stood  Mulligan  Ja 
cobs — listening,  I  fancy,  to  far  echoes  of  ancient  wrongs, 


374         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

and  feeling,  I  doubt  not,  the  bite  of  the  iron-hot  hooks  in 
his  brain. 

' '  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  us,  sir  ? "  Isaac  Chantz 
demanded  of  me,  in  defiance  to  the  gangsters,  who  were 
expected  to  do  the  talking. 

Bert  Ehine  lurched  angrily  toward  the  sound  of  the 
Jew's  voice.  Chantz 's  partisans  drew  closer  to  him. 

"Jail  you,"  I  answered  from  above.  "And  it  shall  go 
as  hard  with  all  of  you  as  I  can  make  it  hard. ' ' 

"Maybe  you  will  an'  maybe  you  won't,"  the  Jew  re 
torted. 

"Shut  up,  Chantz!"  Bert  Rhine  commanded. 

"And  you'll  get  yours,  you  wop,"  Chantz  snarled,  "if 
I  have  to  do  it  myself." 

I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  so  successfully  the  man  of 
action  that  I  have  been  priding  myself  on  being,  for,  so 
curious  and  interested  was  I  in  observing  the  moving 
drama  beneath  me  that  for  the  moment  I  failed  to  glimpse 
the  tragedy  into  which  it  was  culminating. 

"Bombini!"  Bert  Rhine  said. 

His  voice  was  imperative.  It  was  the  order  of  a  master 
to  the  dog  at  heel.  Bombini  responded.  He  drew  his  knife 
and  started  to  advance  upon  the  Jew.  But  a  deep  rum 
bling,  animal-like  in  its  sound  and  menace,  arose  in  the 
throats  of  those  about  the  Jew. 

Bombini  hesitated  and  glanced  back  across  his  shoulder 
at  the  leader  whose  face  he  could  not  see  for  bandages 
and  who  he  knew  could  not  see. 

"  'Tis  a  good  deed — do  it,  Bombini,"  Charles  Davis  en 
couraged. 

"Shut  your  face,  Davis!"  came  out  from  Bert  Rhine's 
bandages. 

Kid  Twist  drew  a  revolver,  shoved  the  muzzle  of  it  first 
into  Bombini 's  side,  then  covered  the  men  about  the  Jew. 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         375 

Keally,  I  felt  a  momentary  twinge  of  pity  for  the  Ital 
ian.  He  was  caught  between  the  millstones. 

"Bombini,  stick  that  Jew!"  Bert  Rhine  commanded. 

The  Italian  advanced  a  step,  and,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
on  either  side,  Kid  Twist  and  Nosey  Murphy  advanced 
with  him. 

"I  cannot  see  him,"  Bert  Rhine  went  on;  "but  by  God 
I  will  see  him!" 

And  so  speaking,  with  one  single,  virile  movement,  he 
tore  away  the  bandages.  The  toll  of  pain  he  must  have 
paid  is  beyond  measurement.  I  saw  the  horror  of  his  face, 
but  the  description  of  it  is  beyond  the  limits  of  any  Eng 
lish  I  possess.  I  was  aware  that  Margaret,  at  my  shoul 
der,  gasped  and  shuddered. 

"Bornbini! — stick  him!"  the  gangster  repeated.  "And 
stick  any  man  that  raises  a  yap. — Murphy !  see  that  Bom- 
bini  does  his  work. ' ' 

Murphy's  knife  was  out  and  at  the  bravo 's  back.  Kid 
Twist  covered  the  Jew 's  group  with  his  revolver.  And  the 
three  advanced. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  I  suddenly  recollected  myself 
and  passed  from  dream  to  action. 

"Bombini!"  I  said  sharply. 

He  paused  and  looked  up. 

' '  Stand  where  you  are, ' '  I  ordered,  ' '  till  I  do  some  talk 
ing. — Chantz!  make  no  mistake.  Rhine  is  boss  for'ard. 
You  take  his  orders  .  .  .  until  we  get  into  Valparaiso ; 
then  you'll  take  your  chances  along  with  him  in  jail.  In 
the  meantime,  what  Rhine  says  goes.  Get  that,  and  get 
it  straight.  I  am  behind  Rhine  until  the  police  come  on 
board. — Bombini !  do  whatever  Rhine  tells  you.  I  '11  shoot 
the  man  who  tries  to  stop  you. — Deacon !  Stand  away  from 
Chantz!  Go  over  to  the  fife-rail!" 

All  hands  knew  the  stream  of  lead  my  automatic  rifle 


376         THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE 

could  throw,  and  Arthur  Deacon  knew  it.  He  hesitated 
barely  a  moment,  then  obeyed. 

"Fitzgibbon! — Giller! — Hackey!"  I  called  in  turn,  and 
was  obeyed.  "Fay!"  I  called  twice,  ere  the  response 
came. 

Isaac  Chantz  stood  alone,  and  Bombini  now  showed 
eagerness. 

"Chantz!"  I  said,  "don't  you  think  it  would  be  health 
ier  to  go  over  to  the  fife-rail  and  be  good  ? ' ' 

He  debated  the  matter  not  many  seconds,  resheathed  his 
knife,  and  complied. 

The  tang  of  power !  I  was  minded  to  let  literature  get 
the  better  of  me  and  read  the  rascals  a  lecture,  but  thank 
Heaven  I  had  sufficient  proportion  and  balance  to  refrain. 

"Rhine!"!  said. 

He  turned  his  corroded  face  up  to  me  and  blinked  in  an 
effort  to  see. 

"As  long  as  Chantz  takes  your  orders,  leave  him  alone. 
We'll  need  every  hand  to  work  the  ship  in.  As  for  your 
self,  send  Murphy  aft  in  half  an  hour  and  I'll  give  him 
the  best  the  medicine  chest  affords. — That  is  all.  Go  for- 
'ard." 

And  they  shambled  away,  beaten  and  dispirited. 

"But  that  man — his  face — what  happened  to  him?" 
Margaret  asked  of  me. 

Sad  it  is  to  end  love  with  lies.  Sadder  still  is  it  to  begin 
love  with  lies.  I  had  tried  to  hide  this  one  happening 
from  Margaret,  and  I  had  failed.  It  could  no  longer  be 
hidden  save  by  lying ;  and  so  I  told  her  the  truth,  told  her 
how  and  why  the  gangster  had  had  his  face  dashed  with 
sulphuric  acid  by  the  old  steward  who  knew  white  men 
and  their  ways. 

There  is  little  more  to  write.  The  mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 
is  over.  The  divided  crew  is  ruled  by  the  gangsters,  who 


THE    MUTINY    OF    THE    ELSINORE         377 

are  as  intent  on  getting  their  leader  into  port  as  I  am  intent 
on  getting  all  of  them  into  jail.  The  first  lap  of  the  voy 
age  of  the  Elsinore  draws  to  a  close.  Two  days,  at  most, 
with  our  present  sailing,  will  bring  us  into  Valparaiso. 
And  then,  as  beginning  a  new  voyage,  the  Elsinore  will 
depart  for  Seattle. 


One  thing  more  remains  for  me  to  write,  and  then  this 
strange  log  of  a  strange  cruise  will  be  complete.  It  hap 
pened  only  last  night.  I  am  yet  fresh  from  it,  and  a-thrill 
with  it  and  with  the  promise  of  it. 

Margaret  and  I  spent  the  last  hour  of  the  second  dog 
watch  together  at  the  break  of  the  poop.  It  was  good 
again  to  feel  the  Elsinore  yielding  to  the  wind  pressure 
on  her  canvas,  to  feel  her  again  slipping  and  sliding 
through  the  water  in  an  easy  sea. 

Hidden  by  the  darkness,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms, 
we  talked  love  and  love  plans.  Nor  am  I  shamed  to  con 
fess  that  I  was  all  for  immediacy.  Once  in  Valparaiso,  I 
contended,  we  would  fit  out  the  Elsinore  with  fresh  crew 
and  officers  and  send  her  on  her  way.  As  for  us,  steamers 
and  rapid  traveling  would  fetch  us  quickly  home.  Fur 
thermore,  Valparaiso  being  a  place  where  such  things  as 
licenses  and  ministers  obtained,  we  would  be  married  ere 
we  caught  the  fast  steamers  for  home. 

But  Margaret  was  obdurate.  The  Wests  had  always 
stood  by  their  ships,  she  urged;  had  always  brought  their 
ships  in  to  the  ports  intended  or  had  gone  down  with  their 
ships  in  the  effort.  The  Elsinore  had  cleared  from  Balti 
more  for  Seattle  with  the  Wests  in  the  high  place.  The 
Elsinore  would  re-equip  with  officers  and  men  in  Val 
paraiso,  and  the  Elsinore  would  arrive  in  Seattle  with  a 
West  still  on  board. 

"But  think,  dear  heart,"  I  objected.    "The  voyage  will 


378         THE    MUTINY   OF    THE    ELSINORE 

require  months.  Remember  what  Henley  has  said :  '  Every 
kiss  we  take  or  give  leaves  us  less  of  life  to  live.'  " 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  mine. 

"We  kiss,"  she  said. 

But  I  was  stupid. 

"Oh,  the  weary,  weary  months,"  I  complained. 

"You  dear  silly,"  she  gurgled.  "Don't  you  under 
stand?" 

"I  understand  only  that  it  is  many  a  thousand  miles 
from  Valparaiso  to  Seattle,"  I  answered. 

"You  won't  understand,"  she  challenged. 

"I  am  a  fool,"  I  admitted.  "I  am  aware  only  of  one 
thing:  I  want  you.  I  want  you." 

"You  are  a  dear,  but  you  are  very,  very  stupid,"  she 
said,  and  as  she  spoke  she  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  the 
palm  of  it  against  her  cheek.  "What  do  you  feel?"  she 
asked. 

"Hot  cheeks — cheeks  most  hot." 

"I  am  blushing  for  what  your  stupidity  compels  me  to 
say,"  she  explained.  "You  have  already  said  that  such 
things  as  licenses  and  ministers  obtain  in  Valparaiso  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and,  well  .  .  .  ?" 

"You  mean  ...    ?"  I  stammered. 

' '  Just  that, ' '  she  confirmed. 

"The  honeymoon  shall  be  on  the  Elsinore  from  Val 
paraiso  all  the  way  to  Seattle  ? "  I  rattled  on. 

"The  many  thousands  of  miles,  the  weary,  weary 
months, ' '  she  teased  in  my  own  intonations,  until  I  stifled 
her  teasing  lips  with  mine. 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


KH,"IHU   FEB1 

.'.M  7 

•• 


OCT  1  0 


General  Library 

LD2lA-40m-8,'71  University  of  California 

(P6572slO)476-A-32  Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFO 


